


To Flourish in a Somber Age

by EnigMatt



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:01:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 28,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25999432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnigMatt/pseuds/EnigMatt
Summary: Agatha Taundfeld, forestborn and daughter of a noted distiller, is increasingly affected by the absence of her father in the wake of the Seventh Umbral Calamity. Curiosity, determination, and no small necessity drive her to leave her secluded home, the hamlet of Hyrstmill, in search of what she can do to help her family. A long and winding road leads ahead, promising many dangers, opportunities, and new friendships to be found. This serialized, first-person story is a chronicle of her journey.
Kudos: 2





	1. "A Head Like the Sea"

**_Ah, Hyrstmill…_ **

**_A sleepy hamlet nestled into a corner of the northern Black Shroud._ **

**_Accompanied by the creaks and groans of water wheels, the humble citizens pass their days with studies and industry, ever thankful to the Elementals for the bounty of the forest._ **

**_It is here that a certain young woman grew from child to youth in the twilight of the Sixth Astral Era._ **

**_Harried by doubts in the wake of the Seventh Umbral Calamity, she begins to muster the courage to take her first step into a larger world._ **

**_What might she discover, I wonder, beyond those familiar shaded boughs?_ **

**_May The Spinner shroud and keep her, and weave the thread of her life into most beauteous tapestry._ **

* * *

_Feels a bit strange coming here by myself._

Arching bridges are built over the crisscrossing streams that run through the center of Hyrstmill, none especially impressive but large enough for an Elezen to stand up straight beneath their apex. The shaded nook provided by this particular wooden span is a favorite spot for children after playing their cares away in the underbrush of Treespeak, or sometimes teenagers seeking a not-so-secret secret rendezvous; the town is far too small for folk to not intuit these things. Removing long leather boots, I step into the water about ankle-deep, letting the tactile sensation bring back the memories more vividly. Of course, Tristram was with me like any good brother should be, alongside friends like Magdalene, Oswen, and Dierdre. Hearing the sound of a hammer pounding steel in the corner of the hamlet is a reminder of Tristram’s presence, but as for the others, I wonder where they might be. Did they find a new place to call home in the Shroud? Did they fall to the Garleans or bird-men? Did they quit this place for somewhere far away, like _he_ did...? No matter the reason, the emptiness of not seeing those faces became only more palpable as the years passed following the Calamity.

The water reminds me of something my father would often say when he was home. He would almost always bring a chocobo-drawn carriage in his wake, full of sacks of grain from Vylbrand. Mum would work hard to turn said grain into an elixir I was explicitly forbidden from drinking until very recently, and Da’ would dote on Tristram and I with strange foreign gifts he must have acquired from merchants come to port. My father—tall, tanned, and smelling of salt—would take a long look at my face, take in my deep indigo hair and teal eyes, and remark, “Got a head like the sea, my girl!” I find myself agreeing, as of late. My mind is as restless as the waves, knowing that he has made himself scarcer and scarcer after what he witnessed at Cartenau, and leaving the rest of us in an untenable position. Mum is hanging in there as best she can and Tristram is using his skills as an apprentice smith to keep the distilling equipment in working order. I feel the pull of the water more keenly, leading me away to try and fill the many voids left in the wake of that night when fire rained from the skies. Perhaps it is time to let that flow guide me towards better things for me and my family. And I think I know where to start… 


	2. Quiver Half-Full, Heart Overflowing

In hindsight, letting Mum and Tristram know of my plans seems to be the easier part of getting ready for my departure. Where I had thought there would be complications, they provided me a good deal of encouragement. For the next few hours, I was as the calm in a storm of activity as my family gathered up what they thought I would need before setting out, debates between them beginning and ending before I could even process what the issue was. While there was no argument against my enrolling in the Archer’s Guild, there were strangely few archery supplies on hand in Hyrstmill, and Mum was insistent that I not arrive on the Guild’s threshold “seeming empty-headed by way of being empty-handed,” in her words. Since I was but a child, I remember ascending the stairs to the rampart that defends our hamlet and staring through the arrow loops built into the wall, firing blunted missiles at imagined evils. Now that more than a toy would be necessary, it took a while to refurbish an old sentry’s bow tucked away in storage behind bags of mun-tuy beans, and a handful of arrows. Tristram’s erstwhile master could not pull himself away from making kettles to cast new arrowheads, apparently.

By next morning I was as outfitted as could be managed, part of me laughing at how I was, at least for now, girding up for The Battle of the Afternoon Stroll. It was only half a bell’s walk from Hysrtmill to Gridania proper, if even that. However, I couldn’t help but stop before walking past the gate, feeling like I was leaving something behind even though I had checked my bags twice. Breaking away from those stray thoughts, I began to walk the familiar path, confidence building with each step. It felt good to walk with a clear purpose behind it. I would learn to defend myself before setting out on the road, and begin to fill in the void my father had left. There would be much and more to learn, but everyone has to start somewhere, right? Rounding the bend toward the Treespeak Stables, my heart began to race at the possibilities.


	3. Drawn Taut

I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. I really don’t. When I first got to the Archer’s Guild things seemed to go swimmingly. Guildmaster Luciane was welcoming and assured me that I was picking up the fundamentals at an accelerated pace, the muscle memory of my childhood play undergoing various corrections to align closer to proper form. The guild was even kind enough to outfit me with more durable clothing for training purposes, although part of me can’t shake the feeling that part of the reason was to replace the garments that drew sidelong glances in my direction. Was my outfit really so outlandish that people assumed I wasn’t born in the Shroud? In any case, each hour spent loosing bolts at targets or learning about the upkeep of my bow served to hone an instinct for observation. Keeping one’s wits about oneself is a basic mantra for those on the road, isn’t it? Clarity; seeing what needs to be seen, taking in every small detail… until you start to notice things you were not prepared for.

From a corner, a pair of eyes bored into me, simultaneously cold from their distance and hot from their frustration. With the narrowing of the eyes, or the furrowing of the brow above, or the twitch of the lips below, I sensed a pervasive disdain. The longer it persisted, the more distracted I became, less so because of the critical aspect, but because I did not know why it was happening. Eventually I had to rack my bow and step outside to physically distance myself from the man, to put myself out of his line of sight. Even outside the guild hall, the targets erected across the fenced downgrade seemed as a collection of eyes staring into me. Later learning that Silvairre, the man behind those eyes, was not reserving his antipathy for me alone did not do much to lessen the awkward atmosphere. And I could not help but look at myself with my newfound clarity to find someone who seemed woefully unprepared for what lay before her. I need some time to think, before I snap like a weakened limb.


	4. Trailblazing

With a careful swing of my scythe the stalks of marjoram fell to the bed of grass below, and after a brief inspection I tucked them away in a sack at my hip. Surveying forest clearings while looking out for beasts in the underbrush was a routine I had cultivated over the past week or so, after introducing myself to the mainstays of the Botanists’ Guild. While I can’t deny that part of what drew me to the Growery was its physical distance from the Archers’ Guild, being clear on the opposite side of Gridania proper, I was also able to rationalize the decision by way of the practical knowledge I would gain about various plants as I harvested them. After all, I wouldn’t want to find myself at a loss should some unscrupulous sort try to pass off a noxious weed as the greatest exotic spice. It was also good to take some time exploring parts of the Shroud as of yet unfamiliar to me, venturing in the vicinity of pungent chocobo stables and imposing guard towers that were all on a larger scale than those I knew further north. Making a small sigh as I hefted my tools, now not quite so heavy as they had been days before, I began my walk back to the city.

Having a new routine was comforting, not to mention the extra money I was earning through my hard work, but the nagging feeling at the back of my mind served to remind me of fact that it was also a method of avoidance. I could not face Mum and Tristram if they found out that I had become a truant from the guild they thought I was a natural for, but at the same time I couldn’t think of a way to tackle the issue at hand. The weight those glaring eyes carried weren’t something I could just write off as prejudice. Silvairre was one of the most experienced members of the guild, so his judgement, while carrying an uncommonly harsh edge, was not totally unfounded. To break free of that oppressive atmosphere I needed to find a way to show confidence, but the question was “How?” Up until this point I was thinking of only the basics of keeping myself safe and avoiding conflict where possible, but now it was as if I were surrounded by foes with no escape in sight. My thoughts and feet paused as I exited from the northern side of the bustling markets, only now realizing how far I had marched while musing over my situation. Getting my bearings, I spied red banners draped in front of the building at the corner of the path, and something inside me… clicked, for lack of a better term. With determination, I scaled the steps to its threshold, hopeful I might find my solution within. 


	5. Drudgery and Diligence

Marching along the eastbound path, I double-checked the fit and condition of the heavier, padded gear I had been outfitted with. The mitts, especially, were a far cry from the oft-fingerless gloves I had used for training with the Archers’ Guild, and like the new clothes, I was also trying to fit new techniques to the contours of my mind. If I could not call them forth at the appropriate moment, passing this test would be a much less certain thing. Although, considering the task before me, perhaps Guildmaster Ywain took my concerns a bit _too_ literally. Broods of anoles, swift scalekin with toothy maws and… unsettling vestigial arms were known to nest in the depressions along a sloping cliff face called Naked Rock. There was a hefty stone whose face was chiseled in ancient designs that had been placed somewhere on the highest reaches of the area, and I was to retrieve it and haul it back to the Guild. Clearly, the wild beasts would be an impediment to my finding the stone, and I could see how, in recommending this particular task, Ywain was trying to give me a practical, physical method to try and overcome the anxiety that had been hampering my progress. At the very least, I could assert that my intuition wasn’t wrong, but a single curmudgeonly Elezen was one thing; a pack of bloodthirsty animals was another.

A muffled screech from above seemed to confirm my fears, causing me to ready my bone-tipped spear. Stepping cautiously from the few scrawny trees marking Naked Rock’s perimeter, I tried to keep as little distance between myself and the wall of rough stone that rose along the dirt path, seeking to protect my back in case any beasts decided to leap down and surround me. Putting my stalking skills to use, I avoided making noise, slowly rounding the first bend before an unexpected sensation made me pause. The tip of my nose dripped wet, and a glance at the sky was all it took to realize a further complication: a rainstorm was rolling in from the direction of the city. Crestfallen, I could practically count the ways that the soon-to-be muddy ground would put me at a disadvantage, but even worse was the noticeable stir the rain was causing in the anoles. More cries rang out, rousing the scalekin from their nooks higher up as the animals began to move toward a depression roughly halfway between me and the next bend in the path. As the rainwater trickled through grooves in the rock, it began to pool in the natural basin, with reptilian brood-mates jostling for drinking rights around it. Rushing to a nearby outcropping in a half-crouch, I wracked my brain trying to think of a way around the pack before a curious trill to my back and left informed me of another possibility I hadn’t considered: that the weather might prompt anoles away from the nesting grounds to return.

Already too close for comfort, the scalekin’s slit-eye narrowed as it recognized the sight and scent of an intruder into its territory. Knowing that this was not going to end happily, I shifted my feet into a ready stance and made a lunge with my spear at the anole’s head. A bit too quick for my first attempt, the beast made a hop back, allowing it to steady its own stance before charging, jaws wide, at me. As I attempted to counterattack, my arms felt a sudden resistance, and too late I realized my mistake. In trying to adhere to the principles drilled into me by the Archers’ Guild I had minimized the angles at which an enemy could strike me from, but I hadn’t counted on the increased size of my weapon in close quarters. The blunt end of my spear bumped and scraped against the cliff face, disallowing me my full range of motion with it and giving the anole an opening. While the shaft of the spear slightly deflected the creature’s head, its teeth still sunk into the sleeve of my acton, and I could feel their tips pierce the flesh of my upper left arm. Knowing my spear was useless if someone or something had already slipped in so close, I resorted to desperation. Letting out a scream of pain and fear, my feet found purchase on the rock wall behind me, allowing me just enough momentum to propel myself, tumbling, over the skalekin’s back.

A sickening snap reached my ears before I made an effort to try and right myself, making sure my spear was still in hand. The anole laid in an awkward pose, its neck suddenly veering off at an unnatural angle and with fibers from my sleeve caught between teeth still visible in its open mouth, tongue lolling in the mud. I had not the time to process how the scalekin’s own tenacity had been part of its undoing, as the scream and scuffle had by this point drawn the attention of the rest of the pack. With the multitude’s ire now focused on me, my confidence faltered, unsure if I could even defeat one of the beasts by intent rather than accident, but like a chant my mind repeated two words to try and return me to my senses. Taking a battle-ready stance, my eyes scanned ahead through the rain, and thankfully I found one means of potential escape. The large depression the anoles had been drinking out of seemed to have been made by a boulder that fell from a higher spot on the cliff face and was now resting by the edge of the path, its surface perhaps making a good makeshift ramp. If I could make a running jump from it, I might be able to give myself enough distance to outpace the pack and find a route to escape by. But the muddy ground could slow my pace, and the wet rock might be too slippery and send me careening off the edge, and the anoles might block my path too thoroughly to get through in the first-

No!

Without composure I would be my own worst enemy, and without resolve I wouldn’t be able to see this through to the end, no matter the outcome. As the first of the pack neared, I swung my spear about, catching it in the flank and giving myself an opening to run. The rubber soles of the belted leggings made wet, popping sounds with each stride I took, my spear leading the charge. Like the first attacker, the rest of the pack was wary of the bone spearhead, and began to trip each-other up as they attempted to avoid it, one recoiling from a gash to the neck. From mud to stone, my feet did not slow, and with all the force I could muster I jumped towards temporary safety. Thoroughly muddying myself as I landed in an awkward roll, I needed the window in which the pack would try and turn itself around to get my own bearings, and as luck would have it, even through the rain I could see something spectacular. Only yalms away, propped up on rocks was a flat, stonework disc, standing on its side to about a third of my height and as wide as my forearm. The very same I had been sent to retrieve. And the fact that it was shaped as such gave me an idea only slightly crazier than what I had attempted moments ago.

Holding my spear in only my injured left arm, I dashed to the adorned stone circle, forcing my weight against it to free it from its resting place. I could see the pack of anole starting to round the corner in the path toward the slope’s summit, and with a grunt I loosed the stone straight at the mass of fangs and talons. As I had done before, the charging wheel of stone caused disruption in the group’s movements, giving me a moment to follow in its wake. Leaping down once more as the stone continued to roll off one cliff’s edge, my next jump saw me attempting to grab a branch but it quickly snapped under my weight, sending me falling onto my backside. My heart still racing, I tucked my spear into a leather loop at my shoulder and grabbed what was unfortunately only a fragment of the stone disc. I took off at a run towards the Blue Badger Gate, until my lungs burned and head swam from the exertion.

Much later, while my arm was being attended to by one of the local conjurers, I lamented to Guildmaster Ywain that I had not brought him the stone in its entire. He made a small smile before saying, “We can always make another Stone of Courage. A heart of courage, forged in iron such as yours, is a much rarer thing.”


	6. Stinging Crimson (Part 1)

The days following my trial set up by Ywain were a blur of excitement and bashful contrition as I resumed my training alongside my fellows in the Archers’ Guild. Luciane and Leih, a Miqo’te lass seemingly around my age, were thankful to have me back in the ranks, but Silvairre expectedly maintained his customary aloofness. While the attention was at times a source of anxiety, it was not nearly as pervasive as it had been in the time before my recent excursion. As I sharpened my skills, I began to notice more activity in and around the guild hall, with various figures skirting the training grounds to visit the offices of the Gods’ Quiver also housed within. My suspicions were confirmed when Luciane pulled aside the nominal top of the Guild’s membership to tell them of an upcoming operation against the Redbelly Hornets. Cutpurses and poachers whose acts flew in the face of the Elementals’ will, they had recently been fortifying themselves within what used to be the hamlet of Boughbury in the southern reaches of the Shroud. The Gods’ Quiver would soon start an operation to assault the stronghold and prevent the bandits from consolidating enough manpower to threaten Quarrymill and its surroundings. As the Wailers would still be occupied with defending the southern border with Thanalan, we archers were to assemble small teams and station ourselves in other key points around the area. The aim of our support would be to try and prevent reinforcements from reaching the “Hive” or pick off stragglers attempting to flee.

“A respectable role, and I have no doubts that I will provide you with concrete results,” Silvairre declared, his self-confidence carrying an air of arrogance.

“Not only you, Silvairre,” corrected Luciane, a hint of reprobation to her voice. “You will be working in pairs for the duration of this operation. It’s unclear how many of these Redbellies you might encounter, so having a trusted partner at your back will be invaluable. Once you’ve worked out pairs amongst yourselves, I’ll assign each group an area to position yourselves in. So, who wants to accompany our ever-vocal bowman?” the Guildmaster prompted, pointing a sarcastic thumb at the dark-haired Wildwood. Amidst a sea of silence, I noticed Leih give a small, knowing sigh somewhere behind me, and with but a moment to ponder what it would mean for me, I raised my hand sharply before the Keeper could do the same.

“I’ll go with him,” I said, taking some effort to keep my voice even as self-doubt trickled into the back of my mind.

“You?” Silvairre questioned with a raised brow before facing Luciane more squarely. “Guildmaster, I highly doubt Agatha would be an appropriate choice to be a part of this mission to begin with. She has no practical experience against opponents with mental faculties greater than a miteling and her… generous sabbatical has left her playing catch-up on fundamentals compared to her peers. Or would you have me believe the bandits will lay down their arms in appreciation after a vigorous weeding of their lawns?” he scoffed.

“No, but it would be to our advantage to recognize their hiding places,” I retorted. “If these bandits live on-the-move, ducking through the underbrush, then they need a working knowledge of where to find reliable sources of edible plants, fresh water, and cover. As an initiate botanist, I have that knowledge. And—” I paused briefly as I mustered the confidence to make my bluff. “And would it not help me to catch up by learning from one of the Guild’s finest?” 

“My, who could say no to that?” Luciane interjected. “I think that settles it, and I hope the two of you take this opportunity to learn from each-other,” she concluded, using just enough emphasis to impart her feelings to both Hyur and Elezen. “Now we haven’t much time, so the rest of you work out your arrangements and let me know before the next bell.”

Glancing to Silvairre, I could see him bring a hand up to his face, as if to rub the bridge of his nose or cheekbones in exasperation over the situation, but strangely stop short. “I doubt anything so grand will come of this arrangement,” he muttered before turning to stiffly stride toward a corner of the hall. As I pondered how things would go from here, I suddenly felt a hand on my shoulder. Turning my head with a start, I was greeted by Leih’s face.

“Let me give you an idea of what you’ve just gotten yourself into,” she began, a slight furrow to her brow but a smile on her lips.


	7. Stinging Crimson (Part 2)

“I’ve no doubt the scholars will one day make the correlation between latitude and lawlessness common knowledge,” Silvairre posited. “Poachers run rampant through the South Shroud, and just beyond that the merchant princes of Ul’dah trample the commons to no consequence in their pursuit of coin. Go even further beyond that and the corsairs of Vylbrand will slit your throat for the smallest of slights. Barbarians, the lot.”

Handing the reigns of my rental chocobo over to the colorfully-dressed porter, I tried my best to hide the persistent frown and flushed cheeks that presented themselves once the Wildwood started his tirade. I hadn’t expected such a response after asking Silvairre for information on the South Shroud, a part of the Twelveswood that I hadn’t frequented as of yet, and the situation was made worse by our current surroundings. A simple building propped up inside a small, walled courtyard, Buscarron’s Druthers attracted a wide clientele, as is fitting a bar. The guards posted at the entrances, in their chainmail and polished plate, did not necessarily strike me as Forestborn, and I couldn’t help but assume that the verbal barbs being casually slung by the Elezen bowman would do us no favors in trying to mix in with the regulars. Even though we were taking steps to keep a low profile for the sake of not giving away the broader attack, Silvairre’s high-and-mighty rhetoric could easily get us unwanted attention in a place like this. “Thank you for your… opinions, Silvairre,” I managed to respond.

“Of course. It falls to those with practical experience to put those without in the proper mindset for times such as these,” he explained, another barb finding its mark squarely on my person. It was one of many in the lead-up to and commencement of the operation, and my patience was rapidly wearing thin. “Let us take a moment to rest and check our supplies, but we will want to be on the move again before sunset.”

“I agree,” came my reply, significantly more sincere than my last. Turning to the tavern, I casually strolled towards it while Silvairre occupied himself with the contents of a travel sack. As I neared the front door, I began to hear some muffled conversations from within. At the threshold, however, another sound caught my attention. Around the corner there was a clear and sharp tone, then another as the pitch was altered slightly higher, then lower. In the time after I had come to call Gridania proper my second home, I had learned the city was no stranger to a variety of travelling acts. Buskers and the like, coming to charm the gil from who might take a listen, could often be found on stage at the amphitheater. This sound, though, was different than any lyre or lute I had the memory of encountering. Before I could see what exactly was being tuned a voice rang out from behind the bar, catching me somewhat off-guard.

“You’re welcome to come or go as you please, miss, but I try to keep the way outside open for the louts who happen to drink too much,” the man behind the counter chided, earning him some chuckles from some clients who perhaps fit that description. “Saves on clean-up, see?” 

“Apologies!” I stammered as I took steps around tables filled with peoples of all stripes. While most paid me no mind, I did notice some more lingering glances from around the room. Taking a seat at the bar across from the grizzled man with a patch over his left eye, I continued, “Can I assume you are _The_ Buscarron?”

“One and only,” he confirmed. “And as the name implies, it’s I’s that makes the rules here at the Druthers. Socialite or scoundrel, as long as you pay mind to those rules, all are welcome, miss…”

“Agatha,” I replied.

“Agatha! And what can I get you, Agatha? I’ve ales and mead aplenty, and while I don’t claim to any Dellemont d’Or victories, we can fill your belly for the road, as well. That is, if you’re not planning to stay long.”

“Just passing through, I’m afraid,” I offered in response the barkeep’s leading question. I couldn’t blame him for doing his job in trying to suss-out a customer’s needs, but not knowing the intentions of everyone who could listen in also made me somewhat trepidatious. “So, nothing too heavy for either drinks or food, if you please.” As I pondered what might be appropriate from Buscarron’s verbal menu, a small thought seemed to grow in the back of my mind, like a sprout emerging from soil. “I wouldn’t blame you if you don’t, but do you have any Fulford’s Finest on hand?”

At hearing the name, the older man’s face contorted with surprise. “Well, we’ve got ourselves quite the discerning drinker in house tonight! I’m not saying you lot could learn a thing or two from her, but I get depressed seein’ you all guzzle the same piss night after night!” Buscarron commented, again working the crowd. Turning back to Agatha, he continued, “Fulford, now there’s something I’ve been missing. Rare enough to have a Forestborn making spirits from stock outside the Shroud, but after that great bloody egg in the sky decided to hatch it’s been tough all around. Wood Wailers these days are like as not to turn their nose up at you, but now them noses are sniffin’ for contraband at the border like men possessed. Even turnin’ away legitimate cargo at times. Can’t rightly remember last time I could order a batch of Finest… What was that bloody tongue-twister catchphrase of theirs?”

“’Fulford’s for full flavor!’, I think,” I offered, giving the all-too-familiar slogan some feigned dramatic weight.

“Aye, that’s the one!” Buscarron laughed, giving the counter a celebratory slap. “I think I can get you what you’re asking for, miss.” Proceeding to rummage through contents I could not see underneath the bar, the veteran’s hands eventually came upon the neck of a familiar bottle. Raising it to the countertop, he took a moment to wipe away a small amount of dust that had settled upon it, careful not to have his damp cloth damage the label. The half-empty bottle of whiskey was soon opened, and Buscarron held it still over a small tumbler, trying to prompt an estimation from me as he paused with a raised brow.

“Just a sip or two. I have a tight schedule to keep to,” I requested, glancing to note the changing color of the sky visible through the entryway.

“If you insist,” the barkeep shrugged, giving me a small pour of the bottle’s contents. “And maybe it’s my one good eye startin’ to catch up to my bad one, but I’m curious as to how a lass of your years knows about this drink in particular.”

“For now, that is between me and the gods,” I deflected. When I raised the glass to my lips a nostalgic feeling flooded over me. Memories of the sights and smells that signified all the work my mother put in to her craft. It felt a bit strange to be sitting in front of a bottle bearing my mother’s maiden name so far from home, but it was a reminder that eventually I had to work out a number of things. How to not only find a way around the obstructionist tendencies employed by my own nation, but then venture out into that land of cutthroats so delicately mentioned by Silvairre. After taking a moment let the whiskey settle in my stomach, I left some custom on the bar counter and turned to leave. “Thank you for the drink and chat.”

“And thank you, Miss Agatha. Hopefully that schedule of yours brings you back ‘round my way sometime,” Buscarron opined, prompting only a smile from the young archer as she rushed to meet back with her partner and get underway. As he watched her go, the smile on his own face slowly faded when he spied the dark-haired Elezen she was striding towards. Wringing his hands around the used glass as he wiped it down, the bearded barkeep tried to keep his mind off of the inevitabilities of what he knew was soon to come.


	8. Stinging Crimson (Part 3)

With our wits keenly about us, Silvairre and I set out south and west from the Druthers, eventually deviating from the beaten path and finding our own avenues through the foliage. Skirting a small campsite that was, for whatever reason, set up at the edge of an uncommonly large sinkhole, we continued our trek in silence. Despite the whiskey I had quaffed, the tension in the air had me reaching for my bow whenever there was a rustle in the underbrush, invariably revealing itself as some scurrying vilekin or spooked antelope. Eventually we happened upon a small clearing adjacent a stony hillside, at the center of which were the remains of a man-made structure. Perhaps a cottage some summer long ago, all that remained was a mass of floorboards surrounded by the occasional vertical stake, the wood grayed and moss-ridden. With the potentials of such a ruin running through my mind, I took a tentative step forward to investigate, but a hand quickly took hold of my arm in protest. Looking to the Elezen, a tense expression dominated his features. “There is a chance it may be trapped, if this is indeed used by the Redbellies,” he explained.

After double-checking our surroundings, we separated and slowly made our way to opposite sides of the former structure. Silvairre crouched to try and spot any tripwires or other devices, while I took a closer look at the remaining uprights, keen to see if any careless marks had been left on them by some third party, bandit or otherwise. However, with each passing moment we began to realize that the derelict was surprisingly normal and untouched. Even an attempt to check for loose boards only resulted frustration as no secret compartments in which to store weapons or supplies revealed themselves to us. With the light of day quickly fading, I could tell the both of us were harrowed to find a lead, however small, but the practical reality of the situation overtook my eagerness for results. “Should I get camp started?” I proffered. “It won’t be long until dark overtakes us.”

“Very well,” Silvairre conceded with a sigh. “One more sweep of the perimeter, then we make ready for the night.” A shared nod, and we were off to opposite corners, checking for potential dangers as we made our way to meet at the middle. Stepping methodically, I saw little out of the ordinary. Rather, it was something I felt that caught my attention, as my foot unexpectedly slid across a patch of open topsoil. Stooping to investigate, my hands probed the area, causing a thin layer of grasses to move and buckle; someone had dug here recently. Further digging my hands into the soil, my fingertips felt the roots of a nearby tree, and nestled within was a small, round object that I slowly pulled from within the earth. A dull, speckled white, and slightly soft to the touch, it was oddly familiar. I wracked my brain for an answer as to what it was, until I recalled something Fufucha had mentioned in passing.

“Wait, this could be it!” I exclaimed, only half remembering to keep my voice down. The outburst, combined with some excited waving, quickly brought my frowning Elezen companion to my side. “Silvairre, this is a… truffle! They’re similar to edible mushrooms but they only grow underground.”

“Your point being?” queried the exasperated bowman.

“I hear they’re very flavorful, so they would be ideal for someone trying to liven up rations or hardtack, like our poacher friends when they don’t have game readily available. Whoever harvested these last took pains to try and disguise the fact, as well.”

“And with a branch of the Hathoeva nearby, that is indeed ready food and water; but shelter is another story, Taundfeld,” Silvairre added, motioning to the slowly-rotting derelict before a flash of realization crossed his face. “Unless… This is no cache or base, but simply a waypoint. Issom-Har prevents easy ingress from the north, and the swamps of Rootslake to the south help prevent pursuit. This may be fertile hunting grounds, indeed,” he mused, the hint of a smile coming to his face. “So, we’d best get to work.”

Working rapidly into the night, we found an easily-climbable tree in which a makeshift hide was constructed by taking a knife to key branches. As the moon moved slowly overhead, Silvairre and I took turns as one rested above ground while the other kept watch below, heavy cloth our only defense against the chill. The silent hours began to blend into one another before hints of dawn appeared to the east. Straining to keep myself alert, the sudden noise of distant shouting helped dispel my stupor. Realizing that the Gods’ Quiver must have made their move, I frantically tugged on the dangling vine that was wrapped around the wrist of the Elezen above. Receiving a tug back, I was glad for the fact Silvairre would not snooze through the action he so desired. Perhaps sooner than expected, at that, as the sound of hurried footsteps began to steadily creep closer. Hastily shoving my blanket underneath an inconspicuous shrub, I readied my bow while moving to hide behind another large tree trunk. Consciously steadying my breath, I could only hope that we hadn’t bit off more than we two could chew.


	9. Stinging Crimson (Part 4)

Closing my eyes to concentrate, I tried to listen more closely as the footsteps drew ever nearer. Soon I could make out three distinct sets of feet, their pace and tone slightly different as they exited the thicket and made their way further into the clearing. Even as the figures began to speak, I paid less attention to what they were saying and more to the other sounds they made as they moved. Neither the heavy rustle of chain nor the clank of plate make themselves known to my ears, and so I could assume they were not heavily armored. Honestly, it would have been surprising if they were, but at the very least I could assume my arrows would find easy purchase through whatever gear they were donning. Speaking of which, a light and rhythmic jostling from one of the presumed bandits was easily recognizable as arrows moving about in a quiver, meaning that one of them could conceivably fire back after I made my move. Or fire on me regardless if something gave me away before then. No time was afforded to me to parse out which was which, though, as the low creak of old wood bending signaled one of the figures had stepped onto the building’s remains, making them an ideal target. Steeling my resolve, I moved.

With practiced precision I drew my bow, rising from a crouch and stepping around the side of the tree I had been huddled behind. My eyes fell upon an Elezen leaning onto one of the still-upright posts dotting the derelict, his form garbed in the drab browns and rusty reds I was told to expect of the Redbellies and a simple spear casually gripped in one hand. A thousand thousand thoughts raced through my mind before the fingers of my right hand relaxed, sending the readied bolt on its way. The twang of my bow caught his attention far too late, and the twist of his torso towards the source of the noise unfortunately made him a larger target for the arrow that slammed into the flesh just below his chest, sending him tumbling to the ground. Already I had begun to dash for new cover, hearing shouts, perhaps a name on the wind, as I tried to lead the remaining two bandits on.

Even though Silvairre now held the higher vantage point, he had explained the previous night that the person in the hide was also vulnerable due to a lack of stability and mobility. Thusly, it was my job to try and prompt the enemy to take up a space where they could be easily taken down by a hail of arrows from opposite sides. In some distant corner of my head that was not currently pounding with the sound of my pulse, the realization that I had made a mistake in not eliminating the bandits’ archer first began to drip and fester. My heart suddenly dropped into that fetid pool as an arrow shot past my face, embedding itself in an adjacent trunk. Fighting through the shock in order to reverse my course, I dove for the thick underbrush to try and deprive the Redbelly from another clear shot. A frantic mood began to permeate my consciousness as I wondered if each rustle of leaves would be the cause of a “lucky” shot against me, or if my bowstring would be caught on a stray branch as I crawled. Hoping beyond hope that I was not putting myself in the same trap we had hoped to spring, I lifted myself into a run and circled toward the clearing.

Scanning the tree line for any signs of foes, my eyes suddenly locked with another pair, somewhat obscured by a cloth mask. Our bows seemed to move in time with each-others’, but mine had less distance to travel, and as I let loose another bolt it shot through the arm the bandit was using to hold his weapon. The arrow he had nocked took an awkward arc through the air while the bow itself tumbled on its way to the ground. Likely knowing that he had no way to defend himself, the Redbelly took off at a sprint toward the southern quagmire, giving me a moment to breathe free. The fleeting elation was misplaced, however, as a sudden, sharp pain made right leg buckle. My head snapped up and rightward as I tried to place where the attack had come from, and as my gaze caught the form of a swiftly-descending shadow I rolled to the right, operating mainly on instinct. Twin flashes of steel cut through the space I had occupied moments before, and their owner, an Elezen woman wearing an eerily passive wooden mask, quickly turned to pursue me.

Mostly prone after my tumble, there was no way I would be able to ready an arrow before she reached me, but thankfully it occurred to me that there was another way I could use my weapon. As the roguish Redbelly strode forward, I swung my bow back and up, catching her heel in the crook between arm and bowstring and sending her to the grass in a mirror image of my own predicament. Trying to take advantage of the time I had bought myself, I attempted to stand, but found my right leg would not cooperate, a glance down revealing a throwing knife firmly embedded in my thigh. With my one good leg and my elbows I attempted to back away from my assailant, but she found her footing and began to advance more quickly than I could retreat. This wasn’t right. Did something happen to Silvairre that I didn’t notice? If not, why hadn’t he taken any shots yet? Did I fail at drawing them to the right spot? Were there branches in the way? Is he having fun watching me suffer? Who is this person, anyway? How is she going to kill me? Who did I kill? I don’t want to die. I don’t want

A strange noise, somewhere between a scrape and a thud, rang out as a spray of something warm and wet splashed against my cheek. As my vision strained to focus, I noticed a pointed shaft emerging from between the neck and right shoulder of the bandit standing in front of me. Two more recognizable thuds signaled her daggers falling to the ground, followed shortly thereafter by she herself. Still fearful, I continued to scramble back until I hit the exposed roots of a nearby tree, anguished cries rising from my adversary all the while. My hands probed the blood-stained area around where the knife’s hilt protruded from my leg, while my eyes could not break away from the bandit’s agony, her mask falling away to reveal a dark and elegant face stained by tears. Somewhere beyond my fading perception I thought I heard another voice, calling out a name. My name? I couldn’t be sure. Sight and sound slipped away as I was surrounded by a deep and deafening darkness.


	10. Stinging Crimson (Part 5)

Very slowly a haze began to clear from my mind, punctuated by intermittent sensations of numbness and irritation. While, for the time being, I was unable to voice my discomfort, I started to notice others around me, male and female, who did not have that impediment. Low moans permeated my unseen environs, like the drone of a chant uttered by ascetics in meditation but suffused with an inescapable lament. Somewhere nearby a clearer voice seemed to direct itself toward me, and as I mustered the strength to open my eyes, I was greeted with the sight of a tall figure kneeling over me. Taking in her face, a vague familiarity crept into the corner of my mind, and as a runaway cart might overtake its draft animal my recent memories slammed into my consciousness. With a vain attempt to lift myself from the ground, my heart and mind raced from the myriad unanswered questions that had been left over from my encounter with the small band of Redbellies. The woman’s hands quickly took hold of my shoulders, easily overpowering me and affirming my greatly affected state.

“Hey! Easy now,” the Elezen soothed in a practiced and sincerely efficacious tone. “It’s alright. You’re going to be alright.” 

“W—Where…” I managed to stammer, my own voice raspy and unfamiliar.

“You’re in triage at Buscarron’s Druthers.” Glancing about, I recognized some parts of the main building. The notable addition of banners and other long cloths hastily sewn together and strung from the roof to the courtyard wall created much-needed shade from the midday sun. “We’ve been dealing with the aftermath of the battle; in part here and in part at Quarrymill,” she continued. “Your wound will certainly heal with a little care and time, but the knife we pulled from your leg was coated in a weak debilitating poison. That, combined with bleeding from the puncture, was likely what caused you to lose your senses. Be thankful that your fellow archer managed to carry you back here as swiftly as he did.”

The mention of Silvairre caused me to try and look about again, unease building after not finding a trace of him. “Ah,” the conjurer intuited, “if you’re wondering, he’s already left to check on other guild members of yours. Wanted us to let you know. In the meantime, don’t hesitate to ask for help if you need it.” A groan in the distance prompted the verdant-haired healer to turn her head slightly, and sure enough there was a call from across the way.

“Genevote! Assistance, please!”

“On my way!” she called back. With a final, gentle squeeze of my shoulder, the Elezen took quick strides towards the source of the trouble, leaving me alone with my thoughts. As I grasped a better understanding of my current limitations, I distractedly looked to the other patients being tended to in the immediate area. Some, like me, lay on the ground with simple sheets between us and the dirt and small, round cushions propping up our heads. Others with less serious injuries or more of their wits about them were sitting with their backs against the interior of the enclosing wall. While the uniforms worn by the myriad Quivermen and guild initiates might have differed, all seemed to share an affinity for bandages as an accessory, some more soiled than others. The right leg of my own breeches had been cut away and my boot removed to tend to my wound, and my hand couldn’t help but feel at the bandage wrapped over it; the blood was thankfully dry.

Minutes passed as my awareness continued to improve, now recognizing the scent of various spilled humors hanging in the air, and something else I couldn’t quite recognize. The thought was interrupted by an outburst from nearby, a male voice shouting curses to whatever member of the Twelve happened to be foremost in his mind. Heavy footsteps trudged around the corner and wound their way towards where I lay, eventually coming to rest against a nearby wall. Looking up, I could make out the now-familiar eye patch and beard of the bar’s proprietor, his face flushed and sweaty. A palpable exhaustion emanated from his form as our gazes met. “Well,” he sighed, “now you know what happens when nobody pays mind to me rules, little miss.” I could offer no reply, only drink in the man’s fraught emotions. “… Get yerself some rest while ye can,” he offered before returning to his task at hand.

My eyes followed him on his way, and as I looked out past the corner of an open gate, I noticed a strange conglomeration of people. In what dappled shade the trees could provide there were others not being tended to by the conjurers, lined up in efficient rows along the roadside. Straining to lift my head, I realized the closest form I could make out was known to me. The swift movements and threatening demeanor that had been my only experience of her was now replaced by an unnerving stillness. I, too, found it difficult to move, but my breaths came more and more quickly until, exhausted, I let my form relax, staring into the sky through a gap in the canopy. I could feel tears rolling down my cheeks for… I’m not sure how long. In the midst of my confusion, the only feeling that seemed clear was a simple, small desire.

I want to go home.


	11. Mending and Amending (Part 1)

With a nonchalant ease the wooden cart trundled along a well-worn path, the driver occasionally vocalizing to keep his chocobos in line. Just behind short stacks of crates, I had made myself a seat of the rear of the wagon, my feet dangling off the back edge. My right arm wrapped around a taut cord securing large balloons that lifted the apparatus just far enough off the ground to ensure mobility and a smooth ride. It was a comfortable arrangement, all things considered, and comfort was one of the keys to my recovery, or so I had been told. The sack laying to my left contained an ointment I was to apply to my wound regularly and instructions on how to stretch and work my leg in order to retain my normal range of motion. But unduly stressing the injury was right out, and so I had been inventoried as the last piece of cargo on this shipment of goods to my hometown. Watching the scenery slowly recede as I moved in reverse created an odd sense of malaise that was interrupted by the sound of other human voices, making me realize we were nearing our destination.

I and the cart’s other contents jostled slightly as it came to a halt just outside the simple battlements that defended Hyrstmill, figures in familiar green armor circling to inspect the transport. Part of me was curious to see if I was first recognized by any of the local Wailers, but whether through stark professionalism or disinterest my presence didn’t elicit a noticeable reaction. Reaching for the last recovery tool I was given, a wooden crutch, I gingerly lowered myself off of the back of the wagon. Juggling the bag and crutch was an awkward experience, with my right leg eliciting complaints before the process was complete, but eventually I found a comfortable arrangement and started to make my way into the town itself. The rustic facades of various buildings were a comforting sight, my eyes darting here and there to try and spot any faces amongst the figures moving about in their daily routines. My ears beat them to the punch, however, as when I crossed the threshold of the hamlet’s defensive wall a well-known vocal tone signaled the presence of family.

My mother rushed to my side, her lips tightly shut but an elated cheer trying desperately to escape, producing a high humming sound. Hoping to embrace me she reached out, but seeing the crutch and bag made her hesitate. An antsy awkwardness built in the space between us as we didn’t quite know how to engage, but after I set my bag down, we soon found a reasonable compromise with our arms wrapped about each-others’, creating a circle. “Oh!” she exclaimed, our foreheads briefly meeting as she tried to skirt as close to a hug as possible without actually doing so out of consideration for my injury. “Oh, Agatha, my little girl, it’s so good to see you! The bandits didn’t get you badly, did they? And don’t try to spare me, now, because I need to know how much I can do to make things better.”

“It’s naught that a bit of time and attention won’t heal,” I replied, trying to echo the expert tone used by Genevote the conjurer, but failing in the face of the welling emotions brought about by the first of no doubt many reunions. “I missed you, too, mum,” I sighed, adopting a more natural tone. “And what about you, eh? Been getting along alright?” Before I could get an answer, another voice interjected itself, calling out from above us and prompting my mother and I to partially break away from each-other.

“Who has you in hysterics down there, Hextilda?” Walking down a ramp from the inner side of the wall was another woman who seemed to be my mother’s age, carrying kerchief-wrapped totes under one arm.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say your eyes were starting to go, Madge,” my mother chastised. “You remember Agatha, don’t you?”

“Agatha?” Madge squinted slightly as she walked closer before the realization visibly struck her features. “Goodness! I’m sorry, dearie; hardly recognized you! I’ll have to make it up to you the way I know best,” she offered, raising what I now made out as lunchboxes to signal her intent. “Why don’t I whip up something special for you to enjoy while you’re here?”

“I won’t look a gift bird in the beak, but don’t neglect your own boys on account of my girl,” mother mitigated preemptively.

“Wouldn’t think of it! I must be along, then. It’s good to have you back, Agatha!”

“It’s good to be back,” I replied with a wave as the elder woman rushed back toward what was no doubt a well-used kitchen. “Well,” I continued, trying to steer the conversation to its original path, “didn’t think I’d stand out so much. Like a mummer in an abbey, right? But I think we were talking about you?” I pressed, pointing a finger squarely at her torso. 

“Me? Oh, I’m as fine as can be expected after seeing as many summers as I have,” mother responded, her vagueness seeming somewhat odd to me. “We can’t all be spry young things like you, now can we? Did you get taller? And have you put on some muscle, girl?” she asked, her fingers probing my upper arm.

“Mum! Now’s not the time for that,” I sputtered, a slight blush coming to my cheeks as I moved to break away out of embarrassment.

“I’m serious!” she insisted in a laughing tone. “If not for the crutch I’d say you could haul me back home over your shoulder like a sack of popotoes!”

“Huh. Well, it’s not so crazy as you might think,” I posited, trying to remember if I had done just that during my work with the Botanists’ Guild. “You do your best to help me get better, then Tristram and I can just carry you to and fro as you please.”

“Don’t go and tempt me, now,” she chuckled.

“They’ll call you… ‘The Shroud Sultana,’” I posited in a grandiose tone, remembering tales of Ul’dah’s ruler. “And from on high you’ll corner the market by declaring a tax on mun-tuy brew.” As the image formed in her mind, my mother tried to stifle her own laughter and shush me simultaneously.

“Don’t go saying that out where Dametta might hear you, Agatha,” she commanded in a hoarse whisper. “Just because the stuff makes me retch doesn’t mean other folk can’t enjoy it. They’re wrong, mind you, but who am I to change their opinion?” she asked facetiously. “Come along, my girl. No use standing about! Let’s get you settled sooner rather than later.”

With that, I gathered my things once more and mother noted to match my uneven pace, starting the relatively short walk back home. While my mother’s excitement was hardly contained, waving to more passerby and prompting me to do the same, my mind was preoccupied with unease. Had I really changed so much over a few short moons? What would people think because of it? Would the old house feel different to live in after that separation? I tried to shoo these thoughts away from inside my head and concentrate on the warm feeling in my heart. I’m home again, and amongst people who love me. This is what I needed; what I wanted. I should take advantage of it while I’m able.

I should.

I should, because I don’t know when or where the next battle might be.


	12. Mending and Amending (Part 2)

“Go on, then, you two. Show me again.”

“I think this is the third time, mum. I don’t know how this is so entertaining.”

“Just give her what she wants, Aggie,” my brother insisted. “She’ll hold our supper hostage ‘til we let her have ‘er fun,” he added in a lower voice through clenched teeth. With a sigh, I began to roll up my sleeve and took my place just in front of and slightly to the right of Tristram. After a shared look we both flexed our left arms, my training-toned bicep rising in concert with one that Tristram had built up during his work at the local forge. Immediately my mother applauded our simple show, infinitely pleased with the expert directing and choreography she devised a couple days past.

“I can hardly tell you two apart!” she remarked.

“The beard didn’t give it away?” Tristram asked. “Don’t know if that says more ‘bout me or ‘bout you, mum.”

“Oh, hush; you know I wasn’t being serious,” mother chided before standing up and walking toward the kitchen. “Now, if you’ve both washed up, let me get dinner on the table.”

“Well, I didn’t expect to see you sportin’ one, myself, but here you are,” I added, rolling my shirtsleeve back into place. Wanting to rib my brother a little for his insistence I play along in the muscle exhibition, I continued, “Everywhere I go I see men with chinstraps. What I’d like to know is when you all got together and decided that makin’ yourselves look like half-shorn Billy goats was the height of fashion.”

“Meetin’ was about three weeks ago,” he shot back, not missing a beat. “An’ what I’d like to know is how the guilds let you keep your mop as long as it is. Must be a tangle of bugs and twigs by the time you get back from patrol.”

“The both of you stow it before _your_ hair winds up in _my_ dinner,” mother interjected verbally and physically, splitting my brother and I as she placed a steaming pot in the center of the nearby table. The inviting scent of the stew’s broth cut short the developing banter between us, a silent truce agreed upon as we moved toward our respective chairs. As I pulled back the seat, a mental reminder stopped me from sitting down to enjoy the meal.

“Oh! Mum, before we—”

“Go right ahead, dear. We’ll wait,” she reassured, her eyes making a warning glance in Tristram’s direction.

With my left hand on the chair’s back I settled into the routine described in the document sent along with other tools necessary for my recovery, stretching and rotating my right leg to its full range of motion. There was still significant resistance to work through at various points of the routine, but having the set memorized allowed my mind to wander as I completed each specific motion. It was something of a surprise that I could perform this therapy at all, given the cramped confines of the dining room. A memory of my childhood still vivid was the way other children would often remark at the size of my house, especially considering how rare two-story buildings still are in Hyrstmill. What they didn’t consider, though, was how much of the interior could actually be called a “house,” with my family’s living space essentially crammed into what room was left over after the distillery’s operations were plotted out. The entire second floor was an open space for malting the grain, and taking the stairs down would lead you into the wide room with cauldrons of fermenting mash and large stills where their spirits were condensed. Part of the still room’s back wall was a gate leading into a small preexisting cave where barrels sat to age until their contents were ready to bottle. The remainder was a cluster of chambers that had been reworked and redesigned over the years as had been necessary for basic living. I remember it was a very big to-do when Tristram and I reached an age where it was neither practical nor appropriate for us to share a room anymore, and I can only imagine what my mother’s family might have went through before my time. 

Reaching the conclusion of the prescribed set, I settled into my seat and eagerly spooned myself a portion of the hot meal. Tristram, who had been sitting with his arms crossed up until this point, did similarly before my mother took her share. After a look to the both of us, mother raised her hands before clasping them together in front of her. Like clockwork my brother and I followed suit, closing our eyes and offering silent prayers to Nophica for the bounty before us. Perhaps Tristram offered his prayers to Byregot for the creation of all the implements used to cook the meal, instead, but that was between him and The Twelve. The sound of silverware being picked up from the table brought me out of my reverie, and all present eagerly took their first bite. The interplay of flavors from the mix of buffalo, barley, and root vegetables was a comforting sensation, and a reminder that mother’s expertise in slow cooking wasn’t limited to her production of alcohol.

“Is it helping, Agatha?” mother asked out-of-the-blue. “The exercises, I mean. I see you wincing as you do them and it gives me a fright at times.”

“Oh, really?” I stuttered, suddenly self-conscious. “Must not realize I’m even doing it. But it’s fine, mum. Basically, it’s just re-teaching my leg what ‘normal’ is supposed to be. So the cut doesn’t give me trouble after it’s healed, yeah?”

“Well, to hear it from your own mouth is a comfort, at least.”

“Yeah, Aggie’s a tough one, mum,” Tristram offered after swallowing a generous spoonful. “Give ‘er a week and lil’ sis can help work the bellows for me.”

“Only if I get paid for my time, _lil’ bruv_ ,” I swiftly retorted, again falling into a mocking tone. Instead of a shot back, though, the only reaction was a small, crestfallen snort before he started to chew on another bite.

“Agatha, Tristram; not at the table,” mother commanded, breaking the awkward silence momentarily.

“Now that I think about it,” I continued, “I haven’t heard from you how things are going over at the forge, Triz. Learn any new tricks o’ the trade?”

“No doubt about it,” mother interjected. “He’s always a deft hand around the stills, keeping things in good working order.”

“Well, let me hear it from the smith himself, mum,” I redirected in a laughing tone.

“Alright, alright,” she conceded.

“Well,” Tristram haltingly began, seeming to search his memory momentarily, “for starters, if I ever see another teakettle again it’ll be too soon. Been bangin’ out a good number of those recently for the big man. Spear- and arrowheads ‘re always in demand. Once in a blue moon we’ll get a request for armor, which mixes things up, but…”

“But...?” I prompted after Tristram trailed off.

“Hm? Oh, it’s nothin’. Never mind,” came his reply. Unexpectedly he rose from his seat before letting mother and I know, “Steppin’ out for a bit. Be right back.” As I watched him walk out the door there was a palpable tension to his form, but before I could ask mother about what might be wrong a series of chimes rang out from the chronometer hanging in the nearby hallway.

“Is it that time already?” mother mused, also moving to rise from the dinner table. “I’ve got to go check on things ‘round the home-away-from-home,” she informed, using a pet name the distillery’s production area. “Go ahead and eat your fill, Agatha. I’ll finish up later.”

Briefly resting a hand on my shoulder, mother soon disappeared through a door on the far side of the kitchen, as she had done for the past three nights. Absentmindedly staring down into my bowl, I could only remark to myself that it was something of a surprise that a room this cramped could feel so empty. Lifting another spoonful of stew to my mouth, I chewed slowly and rhythmically, my hand trying to massage away the lingering soreness of my wound.


	13. Mending and Amending (Part 3)

A drowsy fog clouded my eyes as woke to yet another day at home. Shifting my gaze to the nightstand beside me, I saw two familiar objects slowly come into focus. The taller of the two was the bottle of salve for my leg’s wound, half-full, and beside it was a nearly-empty square tin. The simple metal box had been delivered by Madge, keeping good on her promise to treat me with treats. Inside had been a collection of cookies shaped and decorated with contrasting black and white frosting to make them appear like the face of an opo-opo, and I had been enjoying them liberally over the course of the past few days. Bringing forth the effort to rouse myself from beneath the bedsheets, I noticed it was still fairly early, with little light coming through my bedroom’s small window. Glancing again to the nightstand, I reached over and opened the tin, absentmindedly consuming the last of the cookies before an odd noise caught my attention.

A sharp thud rang out from somewhere in the house, leaving me initially confused as to what it might be. It seemed a bit too heavy to be a broom falling over, or some such, but a second sound brought the situation into much starker clarity. The low, pained moan that greeted my ears sent me from the lazy morning dregs straight to a near-panic state. With just enough presence of mind to pull on a pair of slops rather than run out in just my smallclothes, I rushed to the opposite side of the hallway, opening the door to mother’s bedroom and finding it empty. Through both the dining room and kitchen I rushed, until finally I came to the distillery. Unlike the rest of the house, some few lamps were aflame along the walls, giving me just enough light to notice a thin and steady stream of grain falling through the air on the opposite side of the room. Moving through the equipment, another moan forced me to increase my speed, and as I reached the stairs all it took was a look up to confirm my fears.

Rapidly climbing the steps, I could see my mother collapsed in a heap halfway up the flight, her form resting awkwardly on the large bag of barley whose contents were slowly spilling to the floor below. Her dulled cobalt hair was disheveled, the shock of the tumble having forced it out of her usual bun, and her left hand unsurely groped the air in the direction of the handrail above her. I called out to her as I approached, my voice brimming with fear and uncertainty, “Mum! Mum! What happened? Are you hurt?”

“Agatha…?” mother responded, still dazed from the fall. “I… I think I’ll be alright; I just need some help up.” As she turned her head to try and focus on me, I noted her pained expression, brow furrowed in an effort to fight back tears. I could also see a large gash on the underside of her chin slowly bleeding onto the steps, sending another shock down my spine.

“Don’t force yourself, mum. I—We’ll help you out, alright?” I reassured her as I took hold of her hand, remembering that I had some extra muscle available to me. “Tristram! Triz! Triz, wake up! Wake up _now_!! And get your arse in here!” I implored, my shouts reverberating off the high walls. Soon enough my brother groggily stepped through the door, jaw set in righteous indignance for having been so rudely awoken.

“Aggie, what in the seven hells are you on about, eh?! What’s going—” His eyes widened as he spotted my mother and I, going through no doubt a similar transformation in mood as I had done minutes earlier. “Shite. Shite-shite-shite!! We’ve got you, mum!” 

“Do you remember what happened, mum?” I asked as Tristram rushed to join us.

“Carrying—I was carrying this damn sack up the stairs when…” My mother’s explanation halted suddenly while she found the strength to continue. “That’s when my knee gave out. Left knee.”

“’Gave out’ how?” I asked. “Was it just the knee, or the whole leg, if you remember? Has this happened before?”

“Just the knee!” my mother responded, her voice hinting at aggravation from my barrage of questions. “As I say, I’ll just need some help up, then I should be able to get myself back downstairs for now.”

“Mum, you’ve got a right bad cut, to boot,” Tristram insisted. “Let’s get you back to bed first, yeah? I… I got her legs, Aggie. You get ‘er facing right-side-up.”

Voicing her protest as we carefully lifted her between us, my mother was slowly moved down the distillery stairs. With my arms underneath her shoulders I could feel mother’s grip slowly tightening; whether out of anxiety, or something else, I could not tell. Awkwardly weaving through the polished metal stills, Tristram and I eventually came back to the living area, depositing her on top of her bedsheets before scouring every nook and cranny for items we thought could be useful in aiding her. I grabbed the salve from my room as my brother returned, arms full of woven bandages and spare bits of wood I think he wanted to fashion into some kind of splint. In trying to figure out who needed to do what and what needed to be done first, all present began to talk over each-other, adding to the confusion.

“Aggie, it’s not gonna do to just leave her like that. How do we get her under the sheets?”

“I don’t want to move her, at all, if we can avoid it. Go strip your bed and bring ‘em in here for mum.”

“She’s gonna roast wrapped up in two sets at the same time!”

“Well, make up your mind, then!”

“Would you two _kindly_ stop shouting?”

“Sorry, mum! Sorry. Let me… get you some water in the meantime, yeah?”

“Hurry with that, Triz. Mum, I’m gonna try and use some of my medicine on your cut, alright?”

“Oh, dear, you need that for your own leg.”

“No, no, no. I’m feeling right as rain. I can spare what’s left over for you, at the least.”

“Here’s th’ water, mum. Want some now? Aggie, sit ‘er up a little.”

As I and Tristram moved in closer, something in my mother’s expression changed dramatically and her arm shot out in a wide arc, denying us and sending some of Tristram’s fetched water to the floor. A hitherto fore unseen anger welled up, spilling forth in tears and words. “No!” she commanded. “No, I will _not_ have you two treat me like this! Infantilized by my own flesh and blood. Gods above! I’ll not stand for it! Now you two listen to me; I’m going to be back on my feet soon for the sake of this family. I won’t let you deny me, and I won’t give _him_ the satisfaction of seeing me falter. So, you can kindly clear out and let me straighten myself up, thank you very much!”

Stunned, all I could do was stare into my mother’s eyes and try to elicit a compassionate plea through my own. Seeing that she would not budge, I stepped back and headed to the door, giving a similarly-flummoxed Tristram a tap on the shoulder to signal he should do the same. Clearing the threshold, neither my brother nor I could stand to look back as I gently shut the door.

…

Sometime later I had thrown on more clothes and stepped outside into the warming morning air. Aside from token sentries up on the wall, it was still a little too early for the town’s morning hustle and bustle, leaving a comforting stillness to surround me. Glancing about the yard, I noticed a wisp of smoke rising from behind a small, pyramidal stack of empty barrels. Minding my limp, I walked around the stack to find my brother had made a seat of them, staring into the distance with a long pipe dangling from the corner of his mouth. Taking notice of me, he shifted slightly to the side and offered a hand up which, after a moment of reticence, I took. Settling my back onto the contour of our improvised sofa, I struggled to come up with any first words for the conversation we needed to have, and I imagine Tristram was in the same predicament. The silence continued until I felt a slight tap at my shoulder, turning to see that Triz was offering me the pipe. I wasn’t a smoker, and he knew, but I could see that it was his best bet at offering me some small comfort for the time being. After a moment’s consideration I took a drag from the pipe, feeling a soothing essence of the herbs smoldering in its bowl before a stinging sensation at the back of my throat sent me into a fit of coughing.

“Ha!” he chuckled, quickly taking the pipe back. “Sorry, sis; that’s all I’ve got.”

“If that’s your best, keep it to yourself,” I quipped, chuckling, myself, as I stifled my cough. As the momentary laughter faded, I mustered up the courage to try and get to the heart of the matter, continuing, “How’s mum, if you know?”

“Haven’t seen her since she blew up at us. I stepped over to the local conjurer’s place to let ‘em know what happened, so they should be along soon.”

“Thanks, Triz… Triz, you’ve gotta know something about why mum was acting that way. What was she doing up so early in the first place? I need you to tell me, and not by halves, alright?” An emphatic sigh greeted my ears as Tristram shifted in his seat, brow furrowed as he searched for the right words.

“Mum, she… I think she’s the most worried out of all of us, right?” Tristram offered. “And she’s working ‘erself into an early grave because of it.”

“How’s that? If it’s a matter of hands, I can—”

“That’s just part of it,” Tristram cut me off. “What help we would have had from around town’s got snatched up by the army for the past few seasons. Not only that, but the cost of bringing in grain keeps goin’ up. So mum buys what she can and keeps to making smaller and smaller batches more and more often. That’s why she’s been squirrelin’ away to the distillery more often ‘n not since you came back. An’ the stairs finally took their toll…”

“You couldn’t tell her to slow down; take care of herself?”

“You think I had a choice, sis? You saw ‘er back there. Ain’t nobody can tell mum to slow down, as like. She wouldn’t know what to do with ‘erself if I didn’t keep the stills in good shape. Which is, by all rights, its own problem.”

“What, is she making you do it? Guilting you?”

“No, no, nothing like that. If anything, I’m making myself do it. It’s… It’s more work than I usually get at the forge, anyhow.”

“Oh? But didn’t you say you were working under a master?”

“Under the master’s table, more like,” he spat with an air of self-derision. “Old man Gerolt is in ‘is cups so often that most of his commissions get deferred to Drake, another deft hand above me. _Reliable_ one, he is. And he’s so busy making up for when the old man is… ‘lacking inspiration’ that all I typically get are what little’s left over. And… it gets my goat because I thought I’d be able to make something of myself; make myself stand out, yeah? Do somethin’ more that bang out nails or coopers’ rings or some such. So, I guess mum’s just… stuck. And I’m stuck with her, yeah? I think that’s why we got so excited when you said you wanted to try and get in with the guilds. ‘cause mum and I knew you didn’t have to be tied down to this little town. You can—” Tristram paused to seriously consider his words, taking another drag from his pipe. “You can be like dad was, but better.”

I took a moment to feel the gravity of Tristram’s words before replying, “I appreciate it, Triz. I do, really. But at the same time, it’s no walk in the park for me, either, alright?” I explained, my voice rising. “For all your faith in me, I could have just as easily come back home in a box, rather ‘n with ‘em. I was almost killed. I kil—I _had_ to kill someone, myself!” I quickly revised.

“Most of the folk we grew up with probably have had to, too. That’s just how it is.”

“And that’s all I have to look forward to in order to fix what you can’t?!”

Before my brother could find a retort, we both heard a small squeak of metal-on-metal and a chime, instantly recognizing it as the small door to the property’s mail box. Tristram rose and strode over to the nearby box, opening it up to find a single envelope. As he returned, he passed the missive over to me, its back sealed with wax that shone with a bright ochre hue.

“It’s for you.”


	14. Mending and Amending (Part 4)

With purpose, not to mention conscious effort, I strode through the busy center of Gridania’s newer district, my footsteps tracing an orbit around the floating crystalline Aetheryte as I considered what the day might bring. After reading the unexpected letter’s contents I had hastily put myself together and arranged for a ride into the city. While there had been some discomfort, I was surprised with how well my leg fared as the rental chocobo swiftly brought me back to town, following the same route I had walked all those moons prior. Back on my own two feet, however, I found myself struggling to maintain a normal gait from time to time, but pushed through the pain, nonetheless. It gave me something to concentrate on other than the tense atmosphere back home, at the very least, and soon I arrived in front of the imposing building that was my destination.

Men and women in bright yellow uniforms rushed up and down the short staircase leading into the reception area of the Adders’ Nest, headquarters of the forest nation’s Grand Company. After navigating through the rushing cadets, I found myself standing just behind packed queues waiting for services at broad wooden counter. Adventurers of all stripes crowded the space, and I was at a loss as to where I should rightly be going or how long I might have to wait. Thankfully, a Miqo’te soldier clad in deep greens noticed my confusion and flagged me down before I became an obstacle to those more familiar with the space than me. After a brief explanation and display of the missive I had brought along with me, he led me to a side door just past the slow-motion chaos of the reception hall and into chambers for those who held rank in the organization. Beckoning me to sit on a low, padded bench for the time being, the lancer disappeared just around a corner before returning to let me know the wait wouldn’t be long. Appropriately, had I only just started to find a comfortable position with my back resting against the wall when a voice from inside called out, “Come in!”

Rising and taking the same short path the soldier had previously trod, I found myself in a small, well-kept office populated by a single Elezen. Short, chestnut hair showed many hints of grey, visible as his uniform cap sat on a far corner of his work area. Said desk was very full, but also neatly arranged, with paperweights of various colors and designs producing a system that must have helped him keep everything organized. His uniform, too, had a bit more ornamentation compared to the runners I encountered earlier, not to mention darker hues, especially around the… shoulders… Looking up from the myriad documents laid before him over the rims of pince-nez glasses, he efficiently rose and offered his hand in greeting. “Welcome. Miss Taundfeld, I believe it was?”

“Y-Yes!” I responded, driving the distraction out of my mind and taking the proffered hand in my own. “Agatha Taundfeld, at your service, sir.”

“Alain Molenier, Serpent Sergeant First Class. A pleasure. Please, take a seat if you like,” he offered, indicating a chair set at a slight angle across from him. Taking him up on the offer, I moved the seat more directly across from his own, but a slight flare of pain as I moved to sit caused a wince across my features. Whether the sergeant noticed or not, he did not make any oblique reference to it before continuing, “I must admit I did not expect you so soon, but all the better for it. Let us start at the beginning, then. I imagine you are at least somewhat familiar with the Order and its role in Gridania, yes?”

“More or less,” I replied. “You centralize the city-state’s resources, manpower, and the like. For the war against the Empire.”

“That is part of it, yes. And as such, we have close contact with the various guilds established throughout Gridania in order to have a better idea of what we, as a nation, have access to; _who_ we have access to.”

“I see…”

“It was frankly a surprise how often your name came up, Miss Taundfeld, when we requested recommendations recently. It seems you’ve managed to make good impressions during your time in the city proper.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Although, if I’m being honest, part of that breadth was due to a bout of uncertainty on my part.”

“If you insist, although that impression didn’t strike me from the accounts I’ve read.” Moving a cylindrical weight from atop one of the stacks, Alain used practiced, precise movements to retrieve individual letters. “For example, Fufucha praises your eagerness to learn and mindfulness toward practical application. Ywain lauded your ability to form plans of action independently. Luciane emphasized your dedication and ingenuity, and—Hmm.”

“Yes?” I prompted, finding it odd how Alain cut himself off.

“Oh, there was a supplement to the report from the Archers’ Guild and its tone was… How shall I put this? That of damning with faint praise.”

_Silvairre_ , I confirmed with not a sliver of doubt in my mind. _Most definitely Silvairre_.

“There are very high standards I am trying match when it comes to archery, after all. I think it’s a more… eccentric example of my guildmate’s way of always looking to inspire self-improvement in others,” I reasoned, almost believing the mitigating wording, myself. Almost.

“Enlightening,” the sergeant commented with a smile. “And with these comments in mind, you can see how we feel you could be a potential asset to the Order and, more broadly, Gridania as a whole.”

“What kind of ‘asset,’ if I may ask?”

“There is some flexibility available to you, I will say. Given your most extensive experience is with the Archers’ Guild, we could always use more competent bowmen and -women to supplement the ranks of the Gods’ Quiver.”

While not intentional on his part, Alain’s phrasing and the stress of the conversation itself brought to my mind’s eye the row of dead bodies lying outside the Druthers, worsening my mood. “Really, I still have a ways to go. I wouldn’t want to be a burden on the professionals starting out.”

An eyebrow rose on the Elezen’s forehead as he returned my relevant documents to their designated pile and shifted in his seat. “’Burdensome’ does not strike me as a word to describe someone who was able to accomplish her designated goal in a combat situation despite being isolated and outnumbered. If I may be frank, Miss Taundfeld,” Alain continued with a sigh, “humility is one thing, but you’ve been consistently rejecting praise the entire time we’ve been talking. May I ask the reason why?”

“It’s—” I struggled to form words out of my complicated thoughts and feelings, eventually coalescing into proper verbiage. “It’s because I know that in your mind that praise elevates me into someone who would make a good soldier for the cause; a good asset for you,” I added, emphasizing the sergeant’s own words. “But looking back on those experiences from my own perspective, I—” The blank, still faces came again, more vivid than the last. “I don’t think I have the heart or the stomach for conventional soldiering.”

“Then I take it you are unopposed to _un_ conventional soldiering?” came the Elezen’s unexpectedly swift reply.

“… How do you mean?” I muttered, feeling somewhat dazed from the sudden turnabout.

“Miss Taundfeld,” Alain began, his posture relaxing somewhat, “you realize that, given the scope of our operations, we are not exclusively seeking out battle masters and bloodied heroes to swell the ranks, yes? For my part, I work primarily with logistics. Think of me as something of a chief quartermaster for the Order.”

“Then… you’re in charge of making sure not only the rank and file are outfitted, but all those people out there can get what they need, as well?” I asked, indicating the crowded reception area.

“You have the right of it.”

“My condolences,” I joked, starting to breathe a bit easier.

“Appreciated,” he responded in turn. “And it’s not just our own people who are counting on the services I manage, but the other Grand Companies, as well. The Sultanate and Thalassocracy are well aware of the Twelveswood’s bounty, and regularly request items and materials that can only be obtained from us. To address this need, the Order is putting together a provisional group of what you might call express couriers meant to deliver those goods to the Maelstrom, the Immortal Flames, and the groups within their purview as necessary.”

“I see. A role that is materially valuable to our allies, and works to maintain our reputation amongst them at the same time.”

“You are catching on.”

“Although, given the most common materials available, are we talking about a wagonload of lumber or…?”

“Not quite. That is where the ‘express’ element comes in. The Order was lucky enough to recently receive some few draught chocobos from our Ishgardian neighbors capable of handling both rider and small cargo at the same time thanks to expertly-designed saddle harnesses. Each member would be using their own. I believe you have ridden before, yes?”

“Yes, I’m quite comfortable riding.”

“Very good. And so, we come to the crux of things. What I can offer you, what I am asking of you, is neither glamourous nor glorious. You won’t be raiding beastman enclaves or Imperial castra any time soon. However, it is a practical service that is essential to our standing amongst our fellow Eorzeans. I need someone who is capable enough to act independently with the skills to defend themselves, should the need arise. Are you she?”

With the multitudinous potential aspects of the sergeant’s proposition raging through my mind, I could not answer immediately. Trepidation crept into its recesses, especially considering what Tristram had explained earlier in the morning. If I agreed, would I become just another face missing from Hyrstmill, working myself into further estrangement from my family? Extra money alone was not likely to help resolve our issues, only alleviate their effects. I needed answers for the questions I had mulled over while sitting at Buscarron’s bar.

“If need be, you don’t need to give your answer now,” Alain proffered. “Take some time to consider the offer.”

“Sergeant Molenier, if I may? Depending on how independent I can act in this role you’ve described to me, is it possible for me to conduct some small personal business over the course of my deliveries?”

Habitually raising his hand to his chin, Alain considered his response before explaining, “It is not out of the question. As the other Grand Companies don’t yet have a comparable service to what you’d be participating in, you have a degree of freedom to act how you please once the packages reach their destination. However, the bulk of your compensation in gil and company scrips is largely dependent on your efficiency and timeliness in carrying out those deliveries. Obviously, I cannot observe you beyond our borders, but we will be keeping track of things here in terms of productivity and impressions from those served. If this ‘personal business’ interferes with the standards I expect, then you only have yourself to blame for a summary discharge.”

A smile crept to the corners of my mouth as the storm’s center made itself clear to me. “Thank you. I’ll gladly take the job.”

“Just what I wanted to hear!” Alain exclaimed, rising from his seat and prompting me to do the same. “Agatha Taundfeld, you are hereby to be admitted into the ranks of the Twin Adder, Black Boars Division, under the provisional rank of Serpent Private. We will be in touch regarding any documentation needed and will be giving you a time frame for introductions and training in regards to general operations. I expect very good things from you, Serpentbringer Taundfeld, in the name of Serenity, Purity, and Sanctity.” Raising his arm at a right angle, forearm parallel to the ground, the Elezen made a deep bow at the waist while fixing his arm in place. I responded in kind, using my own right arm, before a small chuckle escaped the sergeant’s lips. “Apologies. Both of your arms, one over the other. _Twin_ Adders, and all that,” he explained, not having considered his missing appendage.

“Right! Rather, yes, sir!” I corrected myself, going into another bow, although the repeated motion elicited another pang of pain from my leg.

“Are you alright, Taundfeld?” Alain asked, showing that he had indeed caught on.

“My leg was injured during the operation you’re already aware of thanks to Guildmaster Luciane. For… various reasons I haven’t been the most proactive in terms of managing my recovery.”

Again, Alain’s hand went to his chin, and I could see the in small glances he made a mind swiftly determining a solution. “Perhaps we have an opportunity to kill two birds with one stone, as they say.”


	15. Mending and Amending (Part 5)

“Give it another go, then!”

Releasing an exasperated groan from deep in my core, I slowly lifted myself from the muck that was quite thoroughly staining the light, loose clothes I had worn to the training grounds inside Bentbranch Meadows. The large, rounded pen was usually meant for breaking-in fledglings for your average rider, but Sergeant Alain’s penchant for efficiency had given it a new, dual purpose. I wasn’t sure which side of the equation erred on the side of haste, but apparently one of the draught chocobos received from Ishgard was in need of an… attitude adjustment, for lack of a better term. Having been raised solely as a working bird, the amber-colored henne showed an aggressive tendency toward those who moved to mount it, which just so happened to be my task in this endeavor. I had just been on the receiving end of one such outburst, one of the animal’s wings having sent me sprawling in the dirt. It was a fairly consistent pattern that had taken place over the last few days, but thankfully the local breeders had always been on hand to keep watch and help me get back on my feet as necessary. While certainly frustrating, I couldn’t argue with the fact that the regular physical exertion had done wonders for my leg, and I could keep at these sessions for longer each morning.

“Remember to try and look ‘er in the eye as you move!” came another call from one of the handlers as she leaned over the arena’s tall rail.

Unable to vocalize through my labored breathing, I could only offer a nod in their direction while I ran through what needed to be done in my mind. For the time being, my quarry lackadaisically wandered the opposite side of the pen, seemingly oblivious to me despite its recent rebuke. While it had accepted bridle and saddle with no issue and could be led and driven reliably, the moment anyone put boot in stirrup the bird would do something to throw them off balance. Whether confusion, skittishness, or something else entirely motivated these outbursts, I needed to overcome them if I was to use it as my steed in my new role as a Serpentbringer. To that end, the staff had recommended a methodology for asserting dominance that was common for uppity yearlings. This was no yearling, though, in age or size, and it was only through their advice and encouragement that I continued to try and refine my approach.

My breath back under control, I readied myself to try again. With a quick shout I raised a hand, its fingers splayed, noticeably getting the chocobo’s attention. According to the breeders, the birds will view splayed fingers like the claws on a coeurl’s paw, provoking an instinctual reaction of heightened awareness. Keeping my hand open, I began to jog about the arena’s perimeter, prompting the large chocobo to move, in turn, as it tried to keep the same distance between us. Incrementally I increased my pace, my eyes locked on the bird’s own dark orbs in an attempt to intuit how it will react. Drawing on what stamina I had in reserve, I moved to close the gap between us, breaking away from the wall to bring myself near the chocobo’s side. Fearful of repeating my last mistake, I kept the bird’s wingspan in mind as I tried to line myself up with what I could see of its barding. The dangling reigns bounced with each stride the bird took, and seemed tantalizingly close even as I could tell my strength wouldn’t hold out much longer, my lungs burning from the continued exertion.

With one last burst of speed my left arm lanced out, grabbing hold of the long leather strap. A strong tug allowed me to raise myself off the ground, my left foot finding purchase in the appropriate stirrup just as the draught chocobo reacted to my maneuver. As its head reared and wings splayed, I used the last of my momentum to swing my right leg up and over, landing squarely in the saddle. Still perturbed, the bird sped up suddenly, and only a quick grab of the saddle’s horn kept me from tumbling head-over-heels through the bird’s tailfeathers and into the dirt again. Around me I caught glances of ranch hands leaping over the pen’s rail to try and assist while I hung on for dear life, eventually coming to a full stop with their help. I couldn’t quite believe what I had just pulled-off, slowly coming to the realization that even the last part of my mounting had caused no noticeable pain in my right leg. Down and to my side, my eyes caught one of the handlers trying to get my attention.

“Bang-up job, lass! Here, make sure you give ‘er this!” he implored, passing a large root vegetable up into my hand. Still somewhat wary, I carefully removed my other hand from the horn and reached out to stroke the back of the bird’s neck, causing a slight twitch followed by a low coo. When it seemed we had both worked through most of our latent stress I reached forward, waving the treat tantalizingly. Twisting its neck, the bird took a moment to consider the snack before its beak took hold of the opposite end, contentedly enjoying the reward.

“And there you have it,” the handler continued. “She’s yours in truth and spirit. What were you thinkin’ of naming ‘er?”

“A name…?”

…

Clearing the last bridge, I had my steed slow to a more measured pace as I approached the familiar gate. What sparse sentries manning the wall and ground quickly took notice, coming to attention and eyeing both me and my large, off-color chocobo. A Wailer stood firm in the center of the gateway, holding up a hand to signal my stop. Pulling back on the reigns, I did just so, and after a very brief interrogation I dismounted and led the laden bird toward my old home. Word must have spread quickly, as one might expect for a town like Hyrstmill, as before I could even reach the yard I spied my mother and brother hurriedly exiting the front door and rushing to meet me. “Rushing” being a relative term, however, as I could see my mother was walking with the aid of a familiar crutch and Tristram was keeping pace with her.

“Well, don’t you look right professional, all gussied up,” Tristram called out, unprompted.

“It’s not too different from what other fresh blood in the Adders wear, really,” I replied, glancing down to my uniform pieces. Much like what I had worn to the battle against the Redbellies, my new tunic and slops were steeped in dark dyes to reflect my position among the Black Boars.

“Was talkin’ to the bird,” my brother interrupted, moving to take a feel of the metallic armor plate hanging from the front of my chocobo’s full barding.

“Of course…” I sighed. 

“Agatha, dear, you’re looking so much better,” my mother commented.

“Thanks; and how about you, mum? How are you feeling?”

“Well, I’ve got Tristram keeping an eye on me, and the chirugeon says that, if I pace myself, I should be able to get around without support soon enough. Not that I don’t appreciate this, my boy,” mother added, getting a knowing smile back from Tristram. A closer look at the crutch revealed some unfamiliar details, including new leather padding nailed to the underarm crosspiece and a sturdy ring toward the bottom securing where the body must have been cut down to accommodate mother’s smaller stature.

“That’s a relief.” Looking mother in the eye, I took a moment to breathe and compose my thoughts. “Mum, if it didn’t come across in the letter I wrote, I—I just want to say again that I’m sorry for treating you so rough that morning.”

“No, girl, you don’t need to say any more,” mother reassured, moving closer. “I should have been more honest with you, and this is ultimately how I’m paying for it. And it’s not just the leg, believe-you-me. My name’ll be on the lips of the town gossips for moons after shouting my head off at all hours like I did, so my pride is very much on mend, too.”

“Well, you could take up a hobby in the meantime, and let a certain lay-about I know have the run of the house,” I suggested.

“Oh, not at all! When your brother asked to fix this up for me,” mother began, indicating the crutch, “the other fellows at the forge took it a good sign, I’m told.”

“’Showin’ initiative’ were the words, or there about,” Tristram added. “They’ve got my nose to the grindstone learning more jointin’ techniques for spears an’ such.”

“Well, that’s great, Triz! I’m sure you could make a killing doing commissions or repairs for the Lancers’ Guild.”

“Or the big one’s gear, dependin’ on how often you drop in,” he offered with a glance to my chocobo. “What’s ‘is name?”

A smile curled up the corners of my mouth as I explained, “This should bring back some memories for both of you, I think. _Her_ name is Aldara.”

“Aldara…” mother repeated, searching her thoughts for how it should be familiar; a sudden widening of her eyes telling me she had found it. “Oh, look at you! That book of Hannish fables was always your favorite growing up. The story of the mother eagle, yes?”

“Exactly!”

“Leave it to you to remember something like that after all these years, Aggie. Well, pleasure to meet you, Aldara,” Tristram offered, receiving an enthusiastic “Kweh!” in response.

With a chuckle, I looked back to the gate, where rays through the leaves indicated the impending sunset. “I don’t think I can delay much longer, unfortunately. I’ve got a ways to go before I make it to Ul’dah.”

“Ul’dah…” mother mused, her expression shifting to one of anxious worry. “Gods be good. Please take care of yourself out there, my girl. You know I love you, yes?”

“I love you too, mum,” I replied, fully embracing her. Tristram joined in, too, before breaking away and giving me a small pat on the back.

“Don’t let us keep you, sis. But watch yourself, alright?”

“I will,” I reassured him, remounting Aldara and turning him to face the way out. Eagerly taking in the sight of Hyrstmill and my family, I waved as I called out, “I’m off!”


	16. "Elsend Khailakh" (Part 1)

Though Aldara and I made good time as we navigated well-worn trails, I still thought it was prudent to stop for the night at Camp Tranquil. Navigating the narrow bridges leading to the plateau it sat upon while mounted was admittedly perilous the first time around, earning me some laughter from the rough-and-tumble defenders manning the outpost. Still, it was a good opportunity to manage Aldara’s kit and cargo before we both lay down to rest. One large box, marked for the Ul’dahn Alchemists’ Guild, was occasionally vocal as I moved to set it down. The contents were half a dozen or so live tree toads sedated through potent conjury, and in the back of my mind I could not envy what fate might await them once they reached their destination. A job was a job, though, and I needed to prove myself reliable through this first outing. After a night surrounded by the croaking songs of native frogs (sometimes mixing with that of my cargo,) I put everything back together and readied myself to approach the forest’s threshold. The physical crossing would be at a checkpoint called Highbridge. My heart began to race as the trees thinned and my chocobo’s footfalls rang out differently against drier soil.

“Onward, Aldara,” I called, “to Thanalan!”

…

“What a big cock! I don’t think I’ve seen it’s like; do you, Tahja?”

“The color is certainly uncommon, but I think a Roegadyn could handle it without much trouble, Lahmui.”

“Which means the lass must be quite skilled with her partner, yes?”

“No doubt about that, girls, but really, it’s not the size that matters most. I’m sure you’ll agree that mine own pride and joy excels whenever it’s put to the test.”

“Of course, Captain! We love to see it standing proud and tall!”

“Actually,” I interrupted in a half-shout that I quickly stifled, “she’s a henne.” Seemingly in concord, Aldara made a small coo as she stood beside me.

“Oh! Our mistake,” Captain Hunberct replied very matter-of-factly. “In that case we’ll just need to review your documents, then you can be on your way, my good lady.”

_On second thought_ , I mused, my gaze drifting longingly back toward the tree line, _let’s not go to Thanalan. It is a silly place._

After thankfully less-awkward interactions between myself and the Brass Blades, I was allowed to pass, my chocobo trotting over the smooth stone with tentative confidence. As the gateway to and from Eorzea’s arid southern plains, the appropriately-named Highbridge was a busy checkpoint for all sorts, and also a tempting target for smugglers and thieves, hence the large military presence. I could see others with the characteristic bright red pauldrons standing watch and inspecting carriages’ cargo ahead and behind me, one waving through what looked to be a people-mover rolling along the same route as me. Before clearing the span, though, my eyes caught sight of something I could only describe as otherworldly. Away and to my left I spied twisting, bright orange spires weaving through each-other and reaching toward the firmament. The scale seemed to be massive based on what I could judge of the distance, and made more mysterious by way of its separation via a deep ravine. The strange formation struck a chord with me, as I realized that the ever-present cover of leaves native to my homeland had made spotting something this big impossible even from where I had camped the night prior. What else might have been hidden from me?

“’The Burning Wall,’ they call it,” a voice from my right informed. Turning my head, my gaze met that of a Lalafellin archer who was riding alongside the driver of the passenger carriage I had noticed earlier. “A giant cluster of corrupted crystals that emerged after the Red Moon’s fall. You seemed entranced.”

“Just a bit,” I conceded. “Thank you; I didn’t realize I had become so distracted.”

“Not at all, not at all! Looking out for travelers is part of my job, after all. Totobascha Riribascha,” he announced with a hand to his breast. “And you are?”

“Agatha Taundfeld, come from Gridania,” I replied.

“Gridania, eh? I thought as much, given the quiver on your back. You with the Archers’ Guild?”

“I trained there, yes. Did you, as well?” I asked, indicating his own choice of weapon. While to the unacquainted the proportions of the Lalafell’s bow and arrows might seem toy-like, my own experience had taught me to not underestimate the smaller race’s strength. Watching Guildmaster Fufucha fell a dead tree by herself had been enlightening, to put it mildly.

“Oh, no, not me,” he answered as he demurred slightly, his tourmaline-like eyes glancing briefly to the horizon. “I had my training in and around my native Ul’dah.”

“Interesting; I’ll have look up who trained you when I get there. Might be something new I can learn from them.”

“Ah, you’re headed to the city, as well? In that case, why don’t—”

“Oy! Eyes front, Toto!” demanded the driver. “You can buy ‘er a drink once we get there, but right now you’ve got a job to do, eh?” In a clearly over-acted manner Totobascha wrenched his head and torso back to face forward, unblinking and with no hint of deviation. After a brief silence his lips bunched toward the left corner of his mouth, creating a comical expression I could not help but chuckle at.

“So, as I was saying,” Totobascha resumed, his voice somewhat distorted by his facetious play-acting, “why don’t we stick together on the way to the city? Safety in numbers, and all that. I’ll watch the right, and you watch the left, eh?”

“That makes sense, I think,” I replied with a smile and nod. After my new companion thought himself safe from the carriage driver’s wrath, we continued our conversation, and I was thankful to be travelling with a native of the land on my first journey to the desert city. As I gleaned more information from him regarding the area, we began to make a turn, travelling more directly south. The sparse and scraggly bushes lining the road were framed by the occasional rock formation, a mix of boulders and what appeared to be ancient masonry long since abandoned. On my half of the lookouts’ responsibility, I also noticed the edge of the ravine surrounding The Burning Wall creeping ever closer.

“You’re going to be in shock for a bell or more once we get into the city itself,” the Lalafell declared excitedly, taking a moment to move some of his dark hair back into place afterward. “The streets are inlaid with beautiful plaques and mosaics. You might say that you can walk over more gil than you’ll see in a lifetime just makin’ the daily rounds!”

“I’ll have to see it for myself, then, because I can’t even begin to conjure an image. Well, if you ever find yourself travelling north, visit Gridania,” I suggested. “You’d stop dead in your tracks, too, if you’ve never seen the scale and shape of the woodworks there.”

“Maybe I’ll try and get away one day, but for now it’s not in the cards, I think. My… jurisdiction, I guess you would say, only goes so far as Thanalan’s borders, being a guard for The Seventy-Seven Caravans. So, I’m here to protect goods and people on the move, but a lot of the time it feels like I’m more of a glorified tour guide, honestly.”

“How’s that?” I asked.

“Well, you can image that everyone and their bird wants a piece of what Ul’dah can offer, so we get folk from all over, coming and going. From lands you and I haven’t even heard tale of, I imagine. Even right now, there’s a couple of odd scaly blighters riding in back,” he said, lowering his voice slightly and pointing a thumb over his shoulder. “Dressed in garb I don’t recognize and speakin’ in tongues, they are. Don’t know what to make of ‘em. But at least it’s not more Ala Mhigans, right?”

“I… pardon?” I offered blankly, somewhat unnerved by Totobascha’s shift in tone.

“Ala Mhigans! Thieves and lay-abouts to a man, they are, and we keep getting more of them. Squattin’ outside my city, squattin’ _inside_ your borders, too, from what I hear.”

My mind shot back to the previous night, where I overheard the Wailers of Camp Tranquil indeed talking about refugees camping at the nearby Quarrymill settlement, and in largely derisive terms, at that. While I couldn’t draw a straight line between my mixed heritage and the plight of a whole people in diaspora, what parallels I could make quickly made me feel on-edge. What could I say to this man? I wanted to mount some sort of defense, but at the same time I didn’t want to estrange my valuable guide in this foreign land. Steeling myself for a verbal retort, I put the sound of moving sand behind me out of my conscious thoughts, rationalizing it as simply the earth shifting. “Well… it’s uncharitable to mark every one as a problem, I think. At the very least, if they’re here then they aren’t being conscripted by the Imperials, now are they?”

“Ha! That’s rich!” he laughed, his voice mixing with the rising sound of wind blowing from the west. “Even if they’re not being fielded by the Imps, they’re doing their work for ‘em right here, tearin’ us up from the inside out. There’s an Ala Mhigan at the head of our own Grand Company now, the bull-headed bastard. Convinced my pa to put his mercenary company to rest and fold it into the ranks of the Flames. Well, I said ‘no thank you’ to that and threw my lot in with the Caravans, instead.”

“Toto…” the driver chided.

“I didn’t expect to become an Adder before it happened,” I replied, “but I’m glad I did, so far. And if the opportunities I’ve received are anything like what the Flames offered your corps, then I’m sure they’re glad too. Your father made a decision that he thought would benefit everyone, and you made a decision you thought would benefit yourself.”

“Hey, you two…”

“And you think that gives him the right to pull the rug out from under me?! That company was mine to take from him when the time came! I could have taken it even farther!”

“Hey!” the driver shouted, getting both of our attention. “… Do you smell something burning?”

Both the driver and I pulled back on our reigns as we collectively brought our wits back about us. With a glance behind I could see a plume of black smoke emerging from the corner of the carriage, as did Totobascha, who quickly leapt into action. While he retrieved a rolled blanket from the carriage’s side, I could hear muffled cries from inside as the passengers took notice of the situation, as well. Confused as to how this had come about, I tried to take measure of anything that stood out in the immediate area while the Lalafell attempted to beat down the fire. I soon found part of the answer. From behind cover emerged dark and heavily muscular forms, brandishing cruel-looking weapons and standing taller than even most Roegadyn. One of their number roared as he led the charge toward our position, the sun providing detail to his leathery obsidian skin and reptilian mien.

“Amalj’aa!” cried the driver as he leapt from his seat. “Toto, give me that! You deal with the lizardmen!”

Totobascha had already tossed the singed blanket to his companion and smoothly drew his bow by the time the driver had finished his sentence. Without hesitation he let loose an arrow at the foremost beastman, catching him in the shoulder. The missile made him pause and drop his spear, but with an infernal drive the Amalj’aa warrior resumed his charge, setting his shoulder to ram into the side of the carriage. Before I could try and take my own shot at the beastman, another bestial form made itself known to me. Rising from where it had burrowed itself in the soft sand, a menacing quadrupedal drake also closed in on our position from behind. With Aldara facing away I could only take a shot by holding bow and arrow opposite my usual dominant hand, and as I struggled to rearrange myself and my weapon, I realized I would not make it in time. The lizard-like monster arched its neck and held its mouth agape as it closed in.

“Look out! Behind you!” I shouted in desperation.

The Lalafell’s reflexes served to protect him as he dashed to the side, but the flustered and occupied driver was not so lucky. A gut of flame shot from the drake’s maw, setting the driver’s clothes alight and, in hindsight, explaining how the carriage had caught fire in the first place. The unfortunate man yelled as he rolled in the dirt, and his companion was torn between continuing to fire on the approaching Amalj’aa or try and stamp out the flames. In that moment, the charging brute hit the carriage, his weight warping and splintering wood at the point of impact. The force was so great, in fact, that the carriage slid, hitting Aldara in the side, as well. I could feel her losing balance from the sudden hit, and all I could do to keep myself safe was force myself out of the saddle, leaping away to make sure my leg wasn’t crushed under Aldara’s weight. My mount and I landed roughly, Aldara more so than me, the impact forcing open the box that held the collection of toads. My face fell as I watched them rouse and start to scatter in addition to the people scrambling to get out of the assaulted carriage.

Confusion and fear permeated my thoughts, with no clear target to fire on and innocents attempting to flee potentially putting themselves in danger. I noticed, all too late, one of the beastmen off to the side of main group holding a staff aloft and reciting an incantation. With fervor he brought his focus down to point in my direction, a ball of flame leaping from its tip and arcing towards me. As it impacted the ground in front of me, I was sent flying once again, tumbling over the edge of the path and onto a rocky plateau further below. Dazed, I tried to regain my balance as best I could, while above I could hear shouts being stifled.

“Prepare these unbelievers to receive Lord Ifrit’s blessing!” came one deep, gruff voice.

“What of the cart? Do we take it?” asked another.

“No,” the first decided. “It will only slow us down. Take the birds and what you can carry, if you like, but get rid of the cart.”

Supporting myself against the wall of earth, I heard a rough, scraping noise moving closer to the path’s edge. A large shadow fell over me as the carriage slowly tipped over, its weight bringing it swiftly down on my position. Making a last-ditch jump, I barely cleared the cart as it slammed into the rocky path, taking a large portion of earth with it as it tumbled to unknown depths below. What remained below my own feet started to give way, too, my mind grasping at solutions that each narrowly slipped away in turn. Vainly reaching up as I felt myself begin to drop, I unexpectedly halted, my arm firmly in someone’s grasp. My eyes looked up to see a most curious visage; neat, short hair the color of verbena framing a passive wooden mask, four black horns emerging from within the locks. Before I could make out who or what had deigned to save me, I heard a strained voice from behind the mask.

“Bitgī yavūlārai!”


	17. "Elsend Khailakh" (Part 2)

Time had slowed to a crawl as I faced the prospect of falling into the ravine, but with that seeming certainty now contradicted my body and mind struggled to catch up to its proper pace. The figure above me was struggling to lift me by themself, and only after some delay did my own free hand reach up to grab at the land’s edge. Now working together, we were able to hoist me up to the point where my waist was level with the land. With a final tug that sent the helpful stranger tumbling onto their backside, I was thankfully back on solid ground. Our breathing was haggard as we paused to collect ourselves, and it was in this lull that I took a second look at the figure’s covered face. From within the haze of stress and fright still lingering about me the look of the wooden mask started to blend together with that of the mask worn by the… former Redbelly rogue I had encountered. Unable to shake the association, my instincts brought me back to a tense agitation, each unanswered question being projected onto the person in front of me.

It was then that I noticed my bow, which had fallen from my hand during the Amalj’aa mage’s attack, sitting between us. Without much conscious thought my arm shot out to grab the weapon, shaking legs then tentatively taking me away from both the stranger and land’s edge. When they reached a hand toward me, my own shot back to what I found was a nearly-empty quiver. My move, in turn, caused the figure to reach toward a bejeweled scepter wrought of silver hooked onto their belt. For a long moment we remained still as statues, only the wind moving between us and unsure if either would further escalate the situation. The horned stranger broke first, but not into violence against me. Instead, their outstretched hand balled into a fist, striking the earth in what looked to be frustration.

“Ügüi shüü!” they shouted at me in a language I had never heard before today. “Bi chinī daisan bish!” they continued, moving to stand and prompting me to take another step back. “Bi üünīg kherkhen… yāj oilgokh ve?” The tone and slight tremble to their voice conveyed an uncertainty that I started to feel more palpably, asking myself whether I should let down my guard in response. I was preempted again, however, as their unsteady hands reached up to the mask they were wearing, undoing whatever secured it to their head. As the stained wood was removed, I was for the first time able to look this person in the eye, and what I saw was intriguing. Skin like burnt umber was interrupted by swathes of black scales that accented her cheeks and the center of her brow, matching the texture of the horns growing out from where Hyuran ears would be. Her dark features and garb, combined with shadows being cast from her short purple hair, made her intense green eyes seem to shine like twin orbs of polished peridot. Her expression faltered for a moment before looking to me once again. “M—me. Bad. No.”

While her delivery was stilted and halting, the horned stranger’s attempt to use the common tongue of Eorzea seemed sincere, and with my battle high subsiding I could see more clearly the situation as a whole. Both of my arms relaxed, and as I stowed away my short bow I could see a smile spread across the girl’s face. Girl? Young woman? Her height and frame relative to my own were noticeably smaller and slighter, putting her on par with my proportions from somewhere between five and ten summers past. It was an especially odd, almost laughable realization that in such a short span of time my life had now been saved twice by individuals who could not have been more different.

“No, you’re not bad. You saved me.” A slight furrow to the foreigner’s brow was telling as I made my reply, but a bolt of realization struck as to how to make my words more potent. “You,” I repeated, pointing to the stranger. “Saved,” I continued, clasping my hands together. “Me,” I concluded, indicating myself with a hand on my breast. “Thank you.”

A feeling of relief visibly washed over the horned stranger’s form before continuing, “Öö, Estegtē talarkhaj baina, ene ajillasan. Namaig Anguryn Keteghoa gede—Ah!” She seemed to catch herself, realizing she had slipped back into her native tongue. After a brief pause, she brought her hands up, accurately mimicking my emphatic pantomiming while making her own additions to our steadily-growing lexicon. “Name,” she said while motioning breath or sound coming forth from her mouth. “Me,” with a hand to her breast. “Keteghoa,” with open palms at her sides, indicating her full self. 

"Your… name… is Keteghoa?” I repeated, making the key gestures as needed.

“Tīm shüü! Y—yes!” she replied with an emphatic nod. “Keteghoa. You—Your… name… what?”

“My name… is Agatha.”

“Isagatha?”

“No, no. Agatha.”

“Agatha. Your… name… _is_ … Agatha.”

“Yes. T—teem shoo?”

“Tīm shüü.”

As we worked out introductions both Keteghoa and I had started to close the gap between us, but I paused when I felt something other than dry earth under my boot. Looking down, I saw the lid of a familiar crate underfoot, suddenly reminding me of the broader context of our situation. Nearby, the box itself had somehow escaped being tossed over the side of the cliff and was sitting upside-down in the dirt. With a knowingly-unreasonable hope I approached it, lifting the corner to find no trace of the live cargo that had once been inside.

“Ene yū ve?” Keteghoa curiously interjected. “What?”

“Oh, this…” I began, trying to think of the best way to illustrate the situation for Keteghoa. “I was carrying this,” I said, hefting the crate in my arms to be as literal as possible. “I was carrying this… to the city,” taking a couple overemphasized steps in the direction the caravan had been travelling. “But, what was inside…” I set down the box and put my hands into the empty space. “… is gone.” My hands made a leaping motion over the edge of the crate, palms open before my shoulders slumped to look as dejected as possible. Keteghoa observed my short drama with a hand cradling her chin until she began to piece the elements together.

“Ta dairaltad yamar neg züil aldsan ū? Something… take? Taken?”

While the semantics didn’t quite match for the toads, specifically, it was indeed true that Aldara and all her cargo were taken, so there was no need to split hairs. “Yes. Taken by the Amalj’aa.”

“Amalj’aa?” After a moment Keteghoa puffed up her chest and held out her hands like claws, giving an awkward attempt at a threatening roar that sent me into a short fit of laughter.

“Amalj’aa, yes! Tīm shüü!”

Keteghoa, meanwhile, seemed somewhat put off by my reaction. “Bad?”

“No, no. Good! Good,” I insisted as I leaned more of my weight onto the box, shifting my posture and letting my head hang lower. In the corner of my vision a new detail stood out, and my eyes began to wander south and west to find even more. Multiple tracks leading away from where we stood; a combination of lighter, shod footfalls and the wider tracks of the beastmen who assaulted us. “Keteghoa! Amalj’aa…” I matched her motions, but omitted the roar. “And taken things…” I motioned to my empty crate. “Taken people…” I brought my wrists together facing up, as if they were bound. “That way! We need to help them. You and me.”

Worry crossed Keteghoa’s features as she came to understand what I was saying. A strong gust kicked up dust and sand, making us raise our voices to compete as she asked, “Me… and you… No other?”

Her doubts were reasonable, I knew, but my fears began to take over again. Reaching for something that might reassure her I offered, “We can do it together. Together, strong. I’ve seen scepters like the one you have before. You’re a mage, aren’t you? You use… magic?” With nothing else coming to mind, my sign for ‘magic’ was me wiggling my fingers as I held my arms out, giving the other girl her chance to chuckle at my expense. “Magic?”

A glint of excitement came to the scaled foreigner’s eyes as I emphasized the word. “Yes, they tell… many magic here, Eorzea. Many magic. You… show me?”

“Show? No… I can’t. I’m sorry; I’ve had magic worked on me, but I don’t know how to use it. I don’t know,” I clarified, pointing to my head before shaking it.

Keteghoa’s expression became increasingly crestfallen as I stumbled through my explanation. “Many magic here, Eorzea,” she repeated, searching for more words. “I… know… must?”

“Look, Keteghoa, I understand you want to learn, but now is not the time. We have to—” Another gust drew my attention away from the conversation. Looking above, I could see the thin, wispy clouds moving rapidly, and a glance in the direction the wind was blowing from revealed an ominous sight. In the distance, ruddy sandstone hills were quickly being consumed by shadow as a churning wall of sand and dust rolled across them. From the look of things, it wouldn’t be long before we, too, were overtaken by the stormfront. “We have to go, Keteghoa! The weather is not on our side,” I explained, pointing a finger upward.

For her part, the young mage followed my gesture with her eyes before squinting at the bright sun overhead. “Nar? Azim āv ū? F—Father?”

“What? No, not ‘father;’ weather.” Was she confusing the words or was the noise of the oncoming sandstorm making it more difficult for her to hear? How did she hear with those horns, in the first place? “We have to move. I only hope that the storm will slow down that raiding party, too. If I remember what Totobascha said, the nearest settlement is to the west. Dry… bone? Drybone. Should we make it there we’ll have shelter for us and help for the others, okay? Help.”

“Help… Help there!” Keteghoa replied, pointing back along the road to the east, where we had come from.

“That’s the wrong way, Keteghoa. No.”

Frustration creeped into the traveler’s features after I gave my response, launching into a soliloquy I had no hope of following except by tone of voice. “Ta yāgād sonsokhgüi baina ve?” That seemed angry and very much directed at me. “Ganzorig güür rüü bustaj irsnīg bi medne.” A brief look back over her shoulder in the direction of Highbridge. “Ene kheleer bi ‘kharūl’ gej yū gej kheldeg ve?” A more inward-facing tone, like she was searching for something, or asking herself a question. “Kharūl… Help man? Help man there.” She pointed once again.

“That—that’s nice, but we have to help ourselves, first. We can’t afford to waste any more time, Keteghoa. Come on.” I took a step forward, reaching my hand out to hers, but she retreated, a worried look in her eyes. “Come on!”

“Tand itgej bolokh esekhīg bi medekhgüi.”

Something in the way she looked at me made her strange words seem accusatory, but every moment we spent at an impasse meant a slimmer chance that we would overcome this crisis in a land that was strange to both of us. There was only so much my survival training and botany knowledge could do in a land devoid of practically any familiar wildlife. Almost all my supplies had been robbed from me when the beastmen took Aldara. I could count the few arrows that hadn’t fallen out of my quiver on one hand, hampering my ability to defend us, and with Keteghoa insisting that I teach her, how was I to know if she could even use any magic yet? There was no upside to anything in this damn desert, so didn’t it make sense for us to get out of it as soon as we could? With a more forceful approach, I succeeded in grabbing her wrist this time.

“Gej övtgöj…”

Keteghoa put up some brief resistance, but soon matched my pace as I marched westward, one hand holding hers and the other keeping the empty crate at my side. From transporting precious cargo to dragging dead weight, all before lunch. Somebody out there must be having a laugh at my expense, I’m sure. What a way to start my new, illustrious career. As the skies darkened under the threat of the oncoming storm, I wished this day would simply come to an end.


	18. "Elsend Khailakh" (Part 3)

Soon enough, the sandstorm began to pass through, mercilessly assaulting us and whatever might still be out in the open. The constant noise and oppressive force of the strong winds buffeting us drove me to distraction, quickly losing track of time as Keteghoa and I continued to march. Each step seemed to take more effort than the last as a combination of fatigue and uncertainty brought an uncomfortable heaviness to my limbs. Beneath my feet the hard-packed dirt of the road was being replaced by alternating instances of hard stone and loose sand, making my pace falter as I tried to make out what lay ahead. Even that was more difficult, as the only thing I could do to mitigate the thick dust swirling around us was awkwardly bring up stretching fingers to adjust the brim of my ranger’s cap while still holding on to the empty crate. I couldn’t very well let go of either of my erstwhile charges before reaching safety, and so I tried my hardest to put everything out of my mind and keep moving forward. After… I don’t know how long, however, a voice brought me out of my reverie.

“Agatha. Agatha!”

Looking back, Keteghoa’s form slowly came into focus, and I could see she was holding her forearm in front of her face. “What’s wrong?” I called.

“Minī nüd…” Behind her arm I could see the heavy airborne dust had been slowly settling on exposed parts of her face, the corners of her eyes red and teary, as well. It hadn’t crossed my mind that she didn’t have even the meager protection my hat afforded, and the wave of guilt that swept over my consciousness swiftly renewed my focus on the here and now. She lifted her arm that was held in my own, seeming to indicate that she needed to use it, and I obliged. While she pawed at her waist for something, I tentatively reached out my now-free hand to try and brush some of the offending sand away, but the horned mage took notice and stepped back with trepidation. “Bi maskā ashiglaj bolno,” she said, holding up the mask she had been wearing earlier.

“Okay… Okay, while you do that, we can take a moment to rest,” I informed, lowering my stance and holding my hands out toward the ground at my sides.

Keteghoa returned my gesture with a nod. “Tīm ē, ene ni saikhan sanā yum shig baina,” she called back, now trying to talk over both the wind and the muffling effect of her protection against it. 

Turning back to face where we had been going earlier, I set down my crate and dropped to one knee. Sparing no effort, I tried to look beyond the storm’s chaos to find any signs of life ahead of us; a light, the outline of buildings, anything. From what Totobascha had said, Drybone shouldn’t have been too far out of the way from where we were before the attack. Why, then, did it seem like we were taking forever to get there? Were his generalizations too little to go by in a situation like this? Had I led us both astray? My attempts thoroughly fruitless, I leaned back to take a break and collect myself. Pondering if Keteghoa would have better luck than me if she tried to do the same, I glanced bac—

She’s not there. 

My heart leapt into my throat as the realization struck me, fighting, and mostly failing, to subdue my panic. In unfamiliar terrain and with my vision mostly obscured, how was I supposed to find her? I didn’t even hear her footsteps as she left, so I had no idea how far she might have gone. This was bad; very bad. At the least, I could be fairly sure she didn’t sneak away in the direction I had been looking, so I tried to scan the area behind me. She wasn’t carrying anything large, so I couldn’t judge whether she planned to return by something she left behind. Nowhere on the ground I searched showed obvious signs of footprints, likely destroyed by the constantly shifting wind. There was nothing to be found.

Even as my mind raced, trying to figure out the how of things, a small, persistent voice kept reminding me that I should also be asking myself about the why of things. My frustration boiled over as I violently grabbed my empty crate from off the ground, something inside me glad for the pain in my hands after they slammed against its sides. Picking a direction without any firm justification, I began to slowly walk while calling out Keteghoa’s name. At first it didn’t seem so hard, but as minutes passed by with no reply I began to cough between each attempt. My desperation wouldn’t let me stop, however, and just before things seemed hopeless, I saw someone familiar in front of me.

Dropping the crate, I ran towards Keteghoa, passing a small and decrepit-looking tree on the way. She was standing near the face of a rocky bluff, one which, even through the haze of the sandstorm, was visibly fractured in many places. The lines formed by these fissures roughly ran vertically before disappearing into the ground. Keteghoa was seemingly intent to find something in one of these cracks, but whatever it was could wait. A hoarse shout from me finally got her attention as I stepped closer, and like I had done with the crate earlier I did not temper my force as I grabbed her by the shoulders. “Keteghoa! Where in the seven hells were you?! Why—” I had to pause to suppress my coughing before continuing, “Why did you go away without telling me?!”

Startled, Keteghoa didn’t have a reply at first, but with surprising strength removed my hands from her person before striking a defiant stance. “Chi yāgād end baigā yum be?” she asked with noticeable incredulity. “Bair bidend kheregtei gej khelsen shüü dē?! Üün shig?” She repeated the motions I had used earlier when suggesting we stop and rest, causing me to backpedal as I considered what she meant by it.

“Keteghoa, I…” My confusion and fatigue caught up with me as I fumbled a response, reaching out to her once more before my hand was summarily slapped away.

“Ügüi shüü!” The other girl’s anger was palpable as she denied me. Perhaps it was a trick of the senses and heightened emotions, but the air seemed to grow still as she spoke. “Chi yag I jākhan khüükhed shig namaig toirokh gej bi zalkhaj baina!” My own frustration was reflected back at me and magnified. “Ta nar nadad itgej chadakhgüi baigā bolokhōr odō.” Her tone shifted to one of pity as I continued to cough. Strangely, I felt the hairs on the back of my neck begin to stand on end. “Bid… chamaig avrakh khangalttai teneg baisan bolokhōr bid end ükhekh gej baina!” A hint of that pity seemed to reflect back on herself while her shoulders slumped. Her hands balled into fists as I reflexively raised mine to my ears, anticipating another shout. “Bi chamaig _ü_ _zen_ yadaj baina!!”

A flash in the dark.

Without realizing it, I was on the ground, hands firmly clutching my head. There was a strong ringing in my ears that drowned-out even the wind I could still feel against my skin. My limbs quavered as I moved to stand and try to make sense of what just happened. An acrid smell filling my nose caused me to glance back, surprised to find the tree I had passed earlier split and aflame. The sight entranced me until the ringing in my ears was replaced with a more ominous and desperate sound. Turning toward it, I saw Keteghoa in largely the same state I had been earlier, but something else seemed to be wrong. Uneasy steps brought me closer as she continued to cry out, her fingers seemingly of two minds as to whether to touch her horns or not. She didn’t even seem to notice me approaching, as she jerked back suddenly when I tried to calm her.

“Khol bai! Üg—Agh!”

“What’s wrong?!” I pleaded, desperately trying to stop her frightening writhing by taking hold of whatever I could. The sight was more than I could bear, and I could feel tears welling up behind my eyes. “If you can tell me, please, just let me know what’s wrong!”

Rather than answer, Keteghoa struggled further, our kicking feet and jostling legs thoroughly disturbing the sand beneath us. I felt a sudden shift downward and toward the rock face as our fight brought us closer to one of the bluff’s larger fractures. Suddenly the ground beneath us seemed to slip away as sand and loose earth began to flow unimpeded in a direction that didn’t seem to exist before just now. Acting on instinct, I tried to pull Keteghoa closer as we tumbled lengthwise into the unknown. Our descent quickly came to a stop as we landed on top of a pile of the dirt that had preceded us, with my last bit of momentum rolling me clear of my companion. My bleary eyes slowly opened, and allowed me to take in my new surroundings.

We had fallen into a surprisingly open space with a flat floor, the usual dirt and dust at our feet, but the stone around us rose fairly regularly, barring interruptions like the ones I had seen marring the bluff’s face. The walls formed a roughly circular space, and above I could see a similarly round opening where the storm raged above, occasionally sending drifting clumps of sand falling to the chamber’s center. As if on cue, the sight brought on a renewed fit of coughing, forcing back to my knees after trying to stand. It seemed to come on harder this time, and I hunched over to try and minimize the little shocks each cough sent through my body. The feeling of a hand on my shoulder caused a different kind of shock as I looked up to see Keteghoa, shaken but standing, and with her other hand nursing her temple. Either she had taken off her mask herself or the fall had displaced it, because I could see the concern in her eyes.

“B—” her voice halted as a strange expression came and went, her hand tentatively touching a horn. “Bi yāj tuslakh ve? How… how help?”

Unsure if I could get out any words, myself, I grabbed at my throat, more keenly feeling the gritty sensation that wouldn’t leave the back of my mouth. She reached for something before realizing it wasn’t there, glancing back to where we had fallen or beyond. As I could only watch, Keteghoa began to search around the confines of the chamber, sometimes stumbling due to the low light. After a few moments, something grabbed her attention, and she leaned over to inspect it. Curiously, a snake-like form swished between the long straps of cloth and leather hanging from her waist, and after some confusion I realized that it was a tail. Apparently, I had been so high-strung for so long today that I didn’t even notice it was there. Though, considering the fact that Miqo’te had tails, too, it was probably the least-surprising revelation about her so far.

Refocusing my attention on what Keteghoa was doing, I saw her eagerly lift a bowl-shaped object from the floor of the room before bringing it over to me. Turning it over so I could take in its full detail, I recognized it as the empty shell of a long-departed common tortoise. Perhaps it was unlucky enough to fall into this place from above some time past. Regardless of its circumstances, I didn’t know immediately why it, specifically, was something I needed to see, and gave the horned mage a confused look. She raised a finger with confidence, seeming to say I should wait for what was to come next.

Bringing the shell along with her, she began to feel at the walls slowly and thoroughly. Eventually, she came across a spot where the stone had shifted, creating a more dramatic overhang that stood out from the smoother, dome-like curve of the rest of the chamber, and set the shell underneath it. Taking a few steps back, she looked to size-up the arrangement she had made before retrieving her scepter and holding it out in the direction of the wall. Her stance stiffened, unmoving from… I wasn’t sure what, as I couldn’t see her face from my present angle. For a fleeting moment she glanced back to me before setting her feet and shoulders once more, intensely considering the stone. Slowly her right arm drew back across her chest, and I could see a dark aura beginning to envelop the tip of her focus, aether becoming visible to the naked eye. The effect built until, finally, she spoke.

“Tsasan… shūrga!”

With a wave of her scepter, strong winds seemed to coalesce at the overhang, suddenly bursting into a wave of ice and frost that clung to the rock. Amazing enough in-and-of itself, Keteghoa’s show was not yet done. Another wave of the scepter continued to build on the form she was constructing, the crystals growing into stalactite-like shapes that hung down toward the chamber floor. A spark of realization came to me, intuiting that the ice Keteghoa was producing would melt down into the waiting shell, giving me precious water to clear my throat and a source we could drink from as needed. After her third spell, though, the sound her sharply inhaling broke my attention away from the magical spectacle and back to the mage, herself.

Keteghoa’s arcane focus fell to the ground with a thud as she clutched her hands close to her torso. The scaly tail that I had noticed earlier stood stiff and still, adding to the feeling that something was amiss. Struggling to my feet, I approached her slowly, and as she turned to face me I looked down to see another patch of ice in a strange and worrying place. Sharp, transparent crystals dotted Keteghoa’s shivering right hand, an occasional touch of red showing where they were piercing into her flesh.

“Ene bol bi yāj tuslakh ve.”

“That’s why… That’s why you needed me to teach you...!”


	19. "Elsend Khailakh" (Part 4)

After what seemed like an eternity of hardship, I began to feel a comfortable stillness surround Keteghoa and myself. I had used a small knife that thankfully didn’t get lost in the Amalj’aa attack to fashion a bandage from the fabric of my trousers that now carefully adorned her right hand. With the water she provided me I was finally able to clear my throat, though not without embarrassment as I had little choice but to gargle and spit in a corner while she looked away. That ever-so-graceful display behind me, I noticed the storm start to die down, the obscuring clouds and dust replaced by a low and gentle hint of starlight stretching down through the hole above us. While we didn’t have to worry about shelter, the arrival of night brought with it a drastic shift in temperature, leaving us with nothing immediately on-hand to stave off the evening chill. Remembering the decimated tree outside, though, I had the idea to somehow use its remains as kindling.

Working together, Keteghoa and I found we were able to climb back up what had become the earthen ramp we tumbled down earlier, careful to not knock anything else loose lest we wind up trapped. Once back outside we took another look around, but double-checking only confirmed the fact that we had… rather, that _I_ had strayed far from the beaten path, with no signs of the town of Drybone nearby. Even with the distant orange glow of The Burning Wall’s corrupted crystals as a potential guide, it wasn’t enough for two strangers to this land. We would definitely need to stay the night here rather than brave the dark unknown already exhausted. Consigned to scrounging up what comfort we could, we approached the charred remnants of the tree that had fallen to the lightning strike. What hadn’t already been reduced to ash was a curious mix of charred and unburnt portions, perhaps due to the lightning’s swiftness or the sandstorm snuffing out the flames. While picking up the pieces, Keteghoa paused curiously before waving me over.

Protruding near the tree’s roots was an oddly-shaped stone that seemed to pulse with a glow not unlike what I had seen from the twisting arches earlier. Clearing away sand around it, we saw it extended even deeper into the ground than either of us expected, its surface strangely rough and rounded all at the same time. Silently agreeing to find out just what this thing was, Keteghoa and I pulled the object free with a small snap. In our hands was a long rock shaped like the kinking branch of a tree, slightly warm and pulsing with an eerie energy. Turning it about, my companion’s face lit up as she noticed what had been the deep end, broken off from what might lay even further down, and urged me to look, as well. To my surprise, the stone was actually a large tube, the inner surface entirely smooth and alight with a bright purple hue that contrasted the exterior’s red-orange. The horned mage cautiously extended a finger to test the inside before a small arc of energy unexpectedly lanced out to punish her. Though surprised and shaking her hand, Keteghoa was so enraptured with the oddity that the broad smile refused to leave her face.

“Ayanga!” she called out, seeming to have come to a realization. “Ayanga ni… elsend khailakh!”

…

Bringing our haul back with us into shelter, including my unfortunate empty crate, we arranged the wood as we saw fit beneath the chamber’s skylight, keeping some in reserve, just in case. Everything was prepared, but as Keteghoa and I stood admiring our work the prolonged silence that formed told us both that there was a fact we had neglected to consider: neither of us had a flint in order to actually get the kindling burning. Momentarily, I pondered heading back outside to gather dry grasses; maybe I could use one of the twigs as a hand drill to get a spark? Even if I could, though, we’d be spending practically the whole night just to get everything set up again, rendering the effort moot. The only other way we might get this fire going was… Reluctantly, I turned to the other girl beside me before addressing her with the help of our improvised sign language.

“Keteghoa, your magic… to help us… can you make… fire?” Keteghoa’s eyes looked down and away as she gripped her bandaged hand. Compelled to try and make the request seem less selfish and unreasonable, I brought my clasped hands up to my forehead in a slight bow, hoping to convey contrition. “Please.”

“… Yes,” she finally answered, her voice quavering from fear, or the cold, or both. “No. My magic… bad,” she corrected, presenting her injury as evidence to the fact. “Make good… I come here, Eorzea. Before… show me… Amalj’aa come. Agatha no show me.” With those final words the mage turned away from me, her shoulders tensed in… I wasn’t sure if it was in preparation for a retaliatory word from me if I took that as a jab, or maybe she was more disappointed in herself? Either way, the sight brought a recent memory into surprising new clarity as I grasped at a faint glimmer of inspiration.

“Keteghoa! Magic, I cannot show. I do not know; but I can show you other things… to help you. Show you…” I paused to pick up my bow and retrieve and arrow from my quiver. “… what I _do_ know.” Puzzled, the horned mage looked back to me and my weapons, searching for an explanation that I then started to provide.

“When your magic made ice,” I began, pointing to the still-present formation, “your body was tense. Your body was tense,” I repeated, crossing my arms tightly in front of my chest and hunching over to illustrate. “It was… like rock!” Stepping through the dim chamber over to its wall, I slapped the surface for emphasis. “Your body like rock. No. Rock is bad.” Walking back to the room’s center, I readied my bow and took up my basic stance. “A rock cannot shoot an arrow. For that you need strength… and flexibility,” I explained, drawing back the bowstring. “To use a bow, I need to be like the bow. You can be like a bow, too.”

“Num sum…” she pondered, seeming to start to catch on. “Minī aidas minī biyeīg īm baidald khürgej baisan ū?” After a moment she looked to set aside her hesitation, approaching and placing a hand on my weapon’s arm. “How like bow and arrow?”

“Well, there are two basic motions you use when firing a bow. First you have to draw back the string, and then you have to release. A lot of first-timers don’t realize how much finesse you need for the second part; it’s not just letting go. Your fingers need to withdraw in a certain way to make sure you don’t alter your shot at the last moment, and it will also help to keep things lined-up for the next shot. My teachers often tell me that breath plays an important role, too. You can time your shots to deep breaths in…” I draw back the bowstring while I take in air. “… and out.” Slowly I returned the bow to a resting position, breathing out as I did so before repeating the display a few more times.

“Erchim khüchīg khadgalakh, khüchīg sullakh. Khoyoulā adil ach kholbogdoltoi,” she said, taking a step back and beginning to breathe in time with me. Closing her eyes, I could see her brow furrow in concentration while keeping time with my demonstration. The ground beneath her feet seemed to come alive with energy, something akin to the aether that was visible around her scepter earlier. Rather than a rapid gathering, though, it was instead suspended in the air, like a light morning mist over grass. It was soon my turn to concentrate on keeping my breath steady as the motes began to move, rising and falling to match the beat of our toneless concert. The entrancing sight continued, myriad specks of magical power taking on subtle differences with each inhale and exhale and back again until, finally, they dissipated, washing over me with a curious warmth. Keteghoa beamed before happily declaring, “You show me, Agatha.”

“I… I did?” was all I could blurt out, demurring in the face of whatever unknowable process she had gone through to come to her conclusion. Reading the confusion on my face, Keteghoa also adopted a more relaxed pose, searching for what to say and how to say it.

“Um… Power is power, but power… change shape? Ügüi ē, ene ni tīm ch zöv bish yum,” she interrupted herself, taking a moment to contemplate before beginning again. “Breathe in is ice. Breathe out is fire. Mös…” she explained, inhaling. “… Gal,” she said as she exhaled.

“Mös… gal,” I repeated, including the appropriate breaths.

“Tīm shüü! Must have both. If only… pull bow, bow break. I break.”

“You hand,” I intuited.

“No again,” she assured me before taking up her scepter. I moved back to give her more space while she once again began our practiced breathing, her shoulders slowly relaxing. The now-familiar color of her magic swirled around her focus as she began her incantation. “Tsasan shūrga.” Rather than the sweeping motion she had used earlier, Keteghoa extended both hands towards the overhang empty hand above the one holding her scepter. As a new layer of ice came into being her hands slowly shifted to opposite positions, gathering the latent power together before she neatly turned on her heel, pointing the bejeweled rod toward our collected firewood. Even through the dark, I could see a glint in her eye as she intoned her next spell. “Galt bömbölög!”

There was a small flash before flames erupted from the center of the stack of sticks, enveloping the kindling in a heat that I could cleanly feel anywhere I had exposed skin. My elation quickly turned into concern, however, as Keteghoa’s conjured flames were so hot that much of what we had gathered seemed to burn away much more quickly than I had anticipated. “Keteghoa… Keteghoa, can you stop it? Stop gal. Stop gal, please?!”

“Bi ünīg īm khüchirkheg bolno gej bodōgüi!” she called back, nervously starting to circle the magical fire and grab at what kindling was blown clear from the spell’s initial spark. I joined suit, watching as most of our work was literally going up in smoke and only pausing briefly when the new light revealed what looked to be a passage carved into part of the wall. With a shared nod we agreed that detail could be left for later, though. When the spell finally concluded, we shoved smoldering sticks together frantically, blowing on them and waving our hands as fans to finally get a proper flame going, but with nothing left in reserve to last the night. “Ene zügēr üü?” she asked, seeming to pick up on my thoughts.

“There’s a way! Gods damn it, there’s a way!” I reassured her, steeling myself for what I was about to do. Scrambling to where the empty crate lay, I tossed her the lid while I desperately pulled at the main body’s corners. Keteghoa followed suit, but seemed to have as little luck as I in separating the sturdy wooden slats. Channeling my frustration, I brought my boot up to slam into the box’s bottom, breaking apart a beam that I quickly tossed onto the fire. My companion soon accomplished the same with her piece, satisfaction crossing her features as the wood splintered. As we went back to stoking the fire a strange, sympathetic laughter arose from both of us seemingly out of nowhere. It was all too much all at once, really. I think we both needed this weird little moment to start really feeling like ourselves again; a moment shared between two friends.

…

Settling in close enough to feel the fire’s comforting warmth, Keteghoa and I experimented with how best to bed down on what was essentially a stone slab with no other accoutrements. My hat and one of her long boots made for poor pillows, but they were something, at the very least. Staring into the crimson glow of the embers was indeed relaxing, but after a time I could feel a nervous energy building in the pit of my stomach. It was something that had come to me following our folly with the fire, and not knowing what tomorrow might bring created a need to voice it sooner rather than later. Looking to the other girl, I could see her eyes were still open, staring to the side in thought. Good; it wouldn’t have done to wake her up again just to talk. Sitting myself up on my elbows, I waved to get her attention.

“Still awake, Keteghoa?”

“Agatha?”

“Keteghoa,” I began, sitting up fully to have use of my hands when speaking, “you helped me. Thank you. You were able to help me because you worked so hard to try and understand what I was saying. I didn’t do much of the same, and for that, I’m sorry; very sorry. I’d like to correct that. So, please… you show me your words?”

Keteghoa similarly sat up as I began to speak, but as I went on a pensive expression crossed her face. It was, admittedly, a lot more information than I had tried to get across compared to earlier in the day, and perhaps my conveyance was suffering for it, both in speech and body language. The foreign girl crossed her arms and tilted her head, both bad signs that seemed to be telling me to stop before I tried to get ahead.

“Oo—oogooee shüü?” I awkwardly sounded out in a thoroughly defeated tone.

“No! Eh—yes! Uh—bi üünīg yāj khelekh yostoi ve?” came her flustered reply. “How show… don’t know,” she informed, raising her hands in a manner similar to what I had done before, but as they returned to the chamber’s floor I saw one shrink back as it hit something unexpected. Keteghoa looked down and picked up the offending object: a small, smooth stone that might have once been part of the upper walls or fell through the opening like the tortoise shell. As her eyes narrowed a nascent smile tugged at the corners of my mouth, hopeful for what she seemed to be thinking of. And sure enough, she turned back to me, holding out the rock.

“More.”

By the fire’s light we collected a small cache of stones that we piled up in the central, communal space. Once Keteghoa determined that we had enough, she split the pile evenly between us and began to make a circular formation on the floor. I copied her, leaving a little space between our pair of miniature henges. Retrieving a leather pouch from her belt, the horned mage then deposited its contents, a clattering menagerie of what looked like brightly-painted, oddly-shaped dice, into said space before addressing me again.

“Ail ger. Is… house game. Family game?” She seemed to take a moment to second-guess herself, looking to me and trying to intuit if I didn’t quite understand. With a nod from me, though, I saw she felt more comfortable continuing on. “Rock is house,” she explained, motioning to our arranged stones. “Ger.”

“Ger. My ger,” I repeated, indicating myself before the stone circle in front of me.

“Minī ger,” Keteghoa responded pointing to herself and her own. “Tany ger,” she continued, this time indicating my side. “Minī ger mösön gol dēr baidag. My ger on… ice mountain. Mösön gol.”

“Min— _tany_ ger mösön gol dēr baidag,” I slowly responded, catching myself from mixing-up the possessives she had just taught me.

“Tīm shüü,” she confirmed with a small clap, seemingly pleased with how I had caught my own mistake. “Minī ger mösön gol dēr baidag. Tanai ger khāna baina?”

The wording was a bit different, but the way she motioned to me made clearer what the question was supposed to be. “Oh! Forest. Many, many trees. Uh…” pausing to try and find a sign of some sort, my eyes fell to the few unburnt sticks that were to be used to fuel the fire. Picking two up, I awkwardly held them up over my head before repeating, “Forest.”

“Oi!” she exclaimed after a moment’s thought. “Oi is forest.”

“Then… Minī ger oi dēr baidag,” I reasoned with confidence. Keteghoa’s expression, though, turned to one of confusion.

“Eh? House on tree?” she asked, pointing up.

“Ügüi shüü,” I replied, the pronunciation coming more readily but the comprehension still lacking, apparently. Moving the sticks from over my head to around my play house, however, seemed to do the trick.

“Ah… Tanai ger oid baina,” she slowly corrected, but I was at a loss as to what made the statement come out so differently. Keteghoa must have read my expression, because she quickly prompted us to move on. “More word. I show you.” Reaching over, she plucked one of the colorful pieces she had dumped from the pouch earlier, placing it in the center of her ger. “Bi. Bi, Keteghoa,” she said, repeatedly pointing from herself to the object and back again. I searched the pile, in turn, feeling the smooth, irregular surface of the pieces and pondering their origin.

“Shagai. Hand bone,” she added pointing to her knuckles. Perturbed, I quickly tossed the piece back into the pile before scooting away slightly. “Not person bone! Animal bone,” she reassured, holding fingers that pointed up from her forehead and making a bleating sound. “Baa. Khoni. Baa baa.”

“Oh…” Considering that she already had horns to work with, Keteghoa’s display elicited a laugh from me, thoroughly disarming my apprehension. Returning to where I was sitting before, I again took one of these “shagai” and placed it inside my ger. “Bi, Agatha.” Across from me, Keteghoa took up more knucklebones, placing a quartet just outside the “wall” of her ger and arranging them so a specific side was facing up for all. Moving two about playfully, she again made her sheep noise. “Karakuls! Khoni!” I called out, a nod from my new friend showing I had learned well.

While I wanted to respond in kind with my own example, we didn’t keep animals at home like Keteghoa apparently did. There was Aldara, though, so I picked up one more shagai, choosing a different face side and holding it just outside my ger. “Chocobo.” With a whistle, I quickly traced a circle around the imaginary yard with the piece to show its speed.

“Ah, mori. Mori- _shūvu_. Mori-shūvu is chocobo,” the dark-garbed mage reasoned. For her next piece she placed one inside her ger, explaining, “I… come from Odtsetseg. Odtsetseg is before me.” With the way she spoke it seemed like her mind was circling an idea or concept just out of reach, unable to recall the exact word. However, the way she described it, and the context of the game itself, clued me in to try and help her find it.

“… Mother? Odtsetseg is ‘mother?’” I asked.

“Yes! Yes. Bi ēj Odtsetsegēs garaltai.” That was quite the mouthful, indeed, but I had to try and respond in kind. With another new piece situated, I slowly repeated what Keteghoa had said back to her, but a chuckle told me I had somehow messed something up. “Not two Odtsetseg. Agatha, Keteghoa not sister.”

“’Two Odtsetseg…?’ Wait, is that your mother’s _name_? Your mother’s name is Odtsetseg?”

“Tīm shüü. Ēj,” she said, pointing to her mother’s shagai piece.

“Oh, that makes more sense. Ēj. My mother, bi ēj. In that case, hmm… Bi ēj Hextilda—Hextildaēs garaltai.” Taking one more of the bone dice in hand, I placed it next to the one that represented me. “Tristram ēj Hextildaēs garaltai.”

“’Tristram?’” Keteghoa repeated curiously, looking more closely at my arrangement of shagai. “Agatha, Tristram, Hextildaēs… Agatha, Tristram nar akh düüs yum! Tristram is boy or girl?”

“Boy.”

“Akh. Tristram akh.”

“Is that ‘brother?’ Minī akh, Tristram.”

“Nice brother?”

“More like annoying brother,” I replied, yakking on in made-up syllables to imitate his voice as I tapped our representative pieces together. There was a wistful look in Keteghoa’s eyes after she stopped laughing at my display. “Do you have a brother, Keteghoa?”

“No, no brother. Me, mother, father,” she explained picking up one more bone and setting it parallel to the piece representing her mother. “Minī āv, Otgonbayir.”

“Āv.” The simple syllable rolled heavily off my tongue as I pondered the remaining shagai between us. It was stupid of me to not realize this would come up in a game of house. Should I be forthcoming so that Keteghoa doesn’t perceive me as withholding something from her? Do I really want to get into this with someone I had known for less than a day? After a moment I took a bone in hand, holding it out just above my ger and… stopping just short of placing it. Changing my mind, I set the piece to the side, far outside the limits of its little stone border and almost beyond the reach of the fire’s flickering glow.

“Minī āv, Anthony.”

Keteghoa’s eyes darted back and forth between the little knucklebone and my face, the realization becoming apparent in how her brow and lips shifted uneasily. Eventually, she bowed her head and retreated slightly while I also looked away, waiting patiently for the imminent apology. This was something I typically didn’t have to deal with; even the town gossips didn’t bring up the subject when speaking of our family back home, and I kept the situation close to my chest when interacting with my fellows at the various guilds. Even so, I had run through what I might say in a situation like this. It’s alright; you didn’t know. No hard feelings. I’m okay, really.

 _I guess now I have the opportunity to learn how to deflect in a foreign language, too_ , I sarcastically posited to myself. The self-effacing reverie would likely have continued if not for the sound of stone on stone bringing me back to the present. Looking back to the other girl, I saw she was moving around the rocks that created our playhouses, even reaching across to my side, as well. In a few moments she had finished her work, and as I glanced around the floor the simple change became apparent: rather than two separate gers, Keteghoa had created one large stone circle that surrounded all the active shagai, save one.

“Good?” she simply asked.

The simple gesture struck at something deep within me, and soon I could feel hot tears running down my cheeks. Burying my face in the back of my elbow, I consciously worked to steady my breathing before addressing my new friend again. “Thank you… Thank you, Keteghoa.” Looking back to her, I saw not the gentle smile from before, but rather an awkward frown. “Keteghoa?”

“Agatha. I’m sorry; very sorry,” she said, matching the inflection that I had used earlier.

“Sorry? Sorry for what? You cheered me up.”

“No, before. I was angry. I say Agatha is bad word. My words.”

My mind went back to our confrontation before the freak lightning strike and how intensely she yelled at me. While the sentiment did still sting a bit, somewhere in the back of my mind a devious curiosity took root. The smile that crept to my lips seemed to confuse Keteghoa for a moment before I prompted,

“You show me, please?”


End file.
